Dark Horse
by Initial A
Summary: Emma moves back to town following the highly-publicized scandal that leaves Killian Jones as the new owner of the Huntsman's Horn Stables. She's determined to help pick up the pieces in the wake of the tragedy, even with the eyes of the racing world on Storybrooke Downs-and the eyes of the new trainer on her. (AU) (Ensemble cast) (Part 1 of the Storybrooke Downs series)
1. April 5, 2014

A sweet scent drifts through the air when Emma gets out of her car, one that speaks of the summer to come. It mixes with the unmistakable scent of the stables, of hay and horses and polish for the irons. The morning mist is burning away as the sun climbs higher, promising a hot day for Maine in April. Hooves thunder down the track on the other side of the infield, and though she is still tense, a few of the knots in Emma's chest loosen.

This is what home feels like.

Her heels click down the concrete, then the tile, and finally up the stairs. She nods at faces she knows - a little older, a little sadder, just like her - and enters her new domain. Screens and machines whir to life as Emma wakes the control room up, and she steps out onto the observation deck. She throws the windows open and watches as some of the horses are exercised. She's early, but she wanted these moments to herself, the peaceful time of day before the day-to-day business begins. She loves to watch them fly, long-buried memories of the wind in her hair resurfacing. A smile escapes her just as another bay breaks free of the gate.

The break room down the hall has coffee, and that's the only other thing she cares about at the moment. One of her cardinal rules - _no drinks near the switcher_ \- is tossed out the window as she re-familiarizes herself with the panel and the rows of intimidating buttons. It's unnecessary, tasks she's done a thousand times before, but the whole show rides on her not screwing everything up when it matters.

_Not like everything else._ It's almost overwhelming, darkness creeping in the edges of her awareness. She shuts it down, and focuses on getting acquainted with everything.

Her phone buzzes a few times as the morning wears on, but Emma ignores it in favor of cursing Equibase or the computers freezing up on her - she should definitely talk to the owner about getting some updated equipment, what is this, 2004?

She jumps when a cheerful voice greets her, "Hi! You must be the new director."

_Directors do not curse in front of their coworkers_, she thinks, and plasters what she hopes isn't a forced grin on her face. "Hi. Yeah, I'm Emma Swan, nice to meet you."

The woman, long brown hair liberally streaked with bright red - _is she really that tall or is it just the shoes?_ \- and lipstick to match, shakes the offered hand. "I'm Ruby Lucas, I'm your graphics tech. So, you're becoming friends with Arthur!"

Confusion settles across her face, and Ruby laughs. She pets the switcher. "We call him Arthur. I wish I had a great story to go with it, but it's really just the first name Elsa said when he was throwing a fit one day and not doing a thing we asked, and it kind of stuck."

"I… see," she says, and she really doesn't, but she's the new girl and she supposes she should play nice for a while.

"Oh, you'll meet Elsa later, she's the sound tech. I come in super early, because -"

"You have to be here when racing services call with changes, yeah I know," Emma says, and internally winces: that came out harsher than she intended.

Ruby doesn't seem fazed and just sits down in her chair, twirling a feathered pen between her fingers. "So you do know your way around here; we were wondering if we'd have to break you."

The woman's grin is wolfish, and the phone ringing right then likely saves Emma from a thorough interrogation. Ruby picks up to cheerfully talk to someone named Billy and take notes. It's fascinating to watch someone talk so animatedly while on the phone, and Emma hides her smile in her coffee cup. She fiddles with the controls to the remote cameras, and grimaces at the state of the pictures. Ruby hangs up, and turns back to her computer. As she stands, Emma asks her to call one of the tower operators to take care of the one. "We have cleaning supplies in here, right?"

"Yeah, supply closet. Need help with the ladder?" Ruby asks, not looking up as her long nails clack away on the keyboard.

Emma glances at the ladder set out next to the wall, and then down at her platform stilettos. "Remind me to bring flip-flops or something to keep in here," she orders as she kicks her heels off.

"You got it, boss," Ruby's voice is amused as Emma pads out the door in her bare feet, cleaning bucket in one hand and an eight-foot ladder over the other.

-/-

He does _not _have time for this.

Killian crosses his arms over his chest, staring the young man down. Bluff's blinkers are missing, and the lad is digging his heels in, and post time is in an hour, and the season hasn't even _started_ and their odds are on the out, and _bloody hell_ he does not have time to argue about particulars and teenage stubbornness. "I groom them at home, what's so different here?" Henry argues.

"Here is such a thing as rules and regulation. At home, we have my rules, and I don't give a shite about who takes care of what as long as it's done. Here, we have the commission, and they do give a shite. They rather like things to go their way, or they can get quite nasty with their punishments. And if you think after the fiasco of last season they'll let anyone associated with one owner near another's horses, then you've got another think coming," Killian tells him.

He regrets his wording almost immediately as Henry's shoulders hunch forward and his face goes blank. "Fine."

The lad stalks into Bluff's stall. Killian watches him for a moment, and when he hears Henry talking quietly, stalks out to the paddock himself.

There are Bluff's blinkers, laid out across his assigned stall. How they got there was a mystery for another day, when his mind wasn't clouded by a thousand other things.

So, in October, or something along those lines.

Killian swipes them down, and leans against a post, taking deep breaths to calm down as he checks over the cloth carefully for splinters. The _last_ thing he needs is a distressed horse on opening day.

_This is the problem with overly familiar owners_, he thinks. He much prefers the way of things at home, where owners are safely shut up in the clubhouse and he is left in peace in paddock. Here, it seems he can't turn around without tripping over one of his employers. If it isn't an adult, it's the boy, who spends half his days mucking out stalls and luring whatever secrets he can out of anyone with knowledge to share. From what he has gathered, Henry has practically grown up in the shedrow, and treats it as his own domain. Which, fine, it partly is, but everyone associated with the Horn is under scrutiny by the entire racing world at the moment, and the boy needs to understand that. _He's fifteen, he doesn't understand feck all._

A feminine grunt, followed by a wooden clatter, brings him out of his thoughts. Killian looks up, and is immediately glad he's already leaning against something. Perhaps Bluff kicked him in the skull when he was being led from the trailer last night, for surely he must be dead to be seeing visions of angels. And then he calls himself seven kinds of eejit for having such wild fantasies, but he blames his upbringing.

Give an Irishman enough time in his own fantasies (and perhaps a bit of whisky) and he believes all sorts of fairytales.

The woman - _angel? Check for own pulse later_ \- steadied her ladder and climbed, a look of determination on her face.

He's never been one to notice a woman's clothing, but something about the way her black skirt hugs her, and the red shirt draping about her lovingly, it draws his eye down her form… all the way to the bare feet. A smile threatens, and he looks back up to her head, her blonde hair swaying with her movements.

She's vigorously cleaning a ball on a pole, and the ladder is wobbling with her movements, and some part of Killian's lizard brain awakens and tells him, _Eejit, go and steady it before she breaks herself._

-/-

"Need a hand?" A lilting male voice asks.

Emma glances back to see the source striding over to her. "I'm good, thanks," she tells him, and goes back to her task.

She rubs at the enviro-dome hard, and her stomach swoops in fear as she almost loses her balance. Her ladder steadies, and she looks down to see him grinning up at her. "Now see, a quick 'yes please' may have saved you a few hairs on your pretty head from going gray already," he tells her, the Irish treatment of his 'r's more prominent with the layer of honeyed-flirting he's added.

Emma rolls her eyes, going back to work. "My hero," she drawls.

"Oh, she's tetchy," he says, and she can _hear_ the grin.

"_She_ not only has a name, but _she's_ got a bottle of cleaning solution, and _she_ isn't afraid to dump it in your eyes, Irish, so back off," Emma snaps.

"And what is _her_ name?" He asks.

Emma ignores him, and studies her handiwork. She digs out her phone - _when did I get all these texts from David?_ \- and calls up to the control room to ask Ruby if she saw any other spots that needed cleaning. She's aware of the man's presence below, his gaze putting her on alert while she's on the phone, and then as she descends. She refuses to think about the last time the paddock was properly cleaned as her bare feet hit the ground. "Thanks," she tells the man shortly as she folds the ladder back up.

It sits heavy on her shoulder; the rag and bottle hang in her other hand. "You sure you've got that, lass?" The man asks.

Emma turns slightly to give him what-for, and stops when she finally gets a good look at him.

Something about him rankles her, in every sense of the word.

For starters, there's something familiar about him. She's good with names and faces, and it's annoying that she's not able to place the astonishingly handsome face with the too-blue eyes, the thin scar across one cheek, and the five o'clock shadow, or the black hair that looks like he's been doing some of his own flying that morning. He's too tall, and from the way he fills out his faded t-shirt, too heavy to be a jockey, so she figures he's an exerciser, or perhaps an involved groom. He has an easy way about him, coupled with a sense of self-assuredness that explains the flirtation. Her guard climbs higher as all of this processes - she's known too many men with that air, knows all of their tricks. "I've got it," she says.

She always has it.

* * *

After a quick foot scrub in the bathroom sink - and it's seriously no joke, trying to wash one foot while balancing with the other on a six-inch spindle - Emma meets her other coworkers. Elsa initially comes off as demure, but when the judges call about equipment not working, Emma is surprised at how fired up the other woman gets about their subpar manners and ham-handedness. Elsa also appears to have a mild obsession with tea - she places a brightly decorated tin box near her station that's filled with what sounds like every kind of tea imaginable inside. Emma's not even sure most of those names are in English.

The two in-house cameramen are a mix of new and familiar faces: she doesn't know Jefferson, who doesn't say much but greets her kindly anyway. But she could never forget Victor, a longtime friend of David's, who greets her warmly with hugs and condolences. Emma brushes the latter off: it's over, has been for a long time, and doesn't let on that her bruised ego and heart appreciate the sentiment anyway. She is also surprised that Victor gives Ruby a kiss - _have I really been gone that long?_

"Two minutes to showtime, folks," Emma says, slipping on her headset.

"Emma Swan, is that you?" Another familiar voice crackles in her earpiece.

There's a fraction of a second before the voice registers in her brain. "Well, if it isn't Sean Herman, all grown up," she teases. "How's Ashley, and the baby?"

"Not a baby anymore, she's in second grade."

Emma gapes, no matter that Sean can't see her reaction, and then the loudspeaker crackles to life with welcomes and information, and the broadcast team shifts their focus to their work.

There are a few slipups as the team shakes off the cobwebs of the offseason; some missed shots, tracking the wrong rider, computer errors that aren't anyone's fault. Inside, she's frazzled and panicky, the thought of some bigwig barging down into her territory to rip into all of them resurfacing after every mistake, but Emma projects calm to everyone. She made a promise to herself years ago, after one bad manager, to never be the kind of blowhard boss that made everyone edgy and sullen. "Good race everyone," she says as Elsa starts replays of the fourth. "Sean, next time let's try a wider shot and we'll see how it looks if we get the full field as they round the back quarter."

"You got it Emma."

Ruby seems to be absorbed in her phone at every turn, but no amount of pointed looks Emma shoots at her deter the other woman from doing whatever it is - Angry Birds? Twitter? Surely there's nothing worth Instagramming in here.

But when it counts, she's paying attention, and just as Emma opens her mouth to switch to the paddock camera, Ruby's nails clash against the keyboard again and she's wiggling the joystick into position. She catches Emma's eye and winks. "I know when I'm allowed to play, Mom."

Emma abruptly shuts her mouth, and ignores Elsa's quiet giggle behind her. She turns back to the screens. Elsa flips a switch, murmuring, "You're going to get frown lines if you keep scowling like that."

"I'm not scowling!"

She's totally scowling.

"I'll add 'skin serum' to the list of things to remind you about, boss."

Dammit.

Elsa scoops up Emma's coffee cup as she leaves for more hot water, saying something about topping it off for her, and Emma accepts distractedly. Her scowl disappears when she sees Henry come onto the screen, leading one of his mom's horses around the warmup ring.

Her nerves flutter again; they haven't seen each other in person in years, only exchanging emails every couple of days. Regina had promised not to tell Henry she'd moved back to town. Emma wants it to be a surprise, probably the first good surprise the kid has had in the last couple of years. He looks good, handling the horse (she could never keep them straight, Regina had particularities about appearances and honestly they all look the same to her) that's at least sixteen times his weight with ease, wearing the colors to show where he belongs.

As the commentary begins, Emma finds herself listening for once. Demon's Bluff, the horse Henry is handling, is the favorite to win, so extra care is given to detail his training and care. She holds her breath as the commentary turns to his stabling, but nothing more is mentioned past the new owner and trainer of the Huntsman's Horn Stables, Killian Jones.

Ruby pans the camera across as Henry leads Bluff to his stall. The trainer is there, his black Stetson covering his face as he flicks through his iPad, the sleeves of his red flannel shirt rolled up against the heat of the day. The name, Killian Jones, rings a bell in Emma's mind - with how often she has fallen in and out of the racing world in the last thirteen years, it's not surprising that some names have stuck. But the trainer holds himself the way a young man does, and the faces she envisions from years ago are all older and weathered. Just before Ruby pans away, the trainer lifts his head and Emma's jaw drops as his face is revealed: the man from the paddock.


	2. April 5

**Many, many thanks to idoltina for being the best beta. This story wouldn't be half of what it is without you.**

* * *

It's not a statement she thinks very often, but Emma really regrets her choice of footwear as she walks down to the stables at the end of the day. Her heels slip and stick in the gravel, and she ends up walking on the balls of her feet for most of the hike, calling herself seven kinds of stupid and definitely _not _thinking about what David's reaction is going to be when he sees her in her Steve Maddens and pencil skirt. She makes a note in her phone to put some casual shoes in her car as she approaches the end of the path with trepidation. Or maybe she should just suck it up and wear the more casual wear all of her coworkers sported that day. She'd made her first impression, hadn't she?

She nods in greeting at the grooms and hands as she finally steps on solid ground; she asks a groom where the Shepherd's Point and Huntsman's Horn horses are being stabled, and she's in luck when they're on the same row. She hears David before she sees him, and grins when he says, "I think I hear…"

"Emma?!"

Henry's fifteen now, so she tries not to feel hurt when he doesn't throw himself at her, but he _does_ walk very quickly and hug her tight. Emma's arms go around him almost as tightly, willing the lump in her throat to vanish. "Hey, kid," she whispers, and rests her chin on his head - even in her shoes he's catching up to her in height. The weight of just _how much_ she's missed this kid crashes over her like a tidal wave, and she holds him tighter. "I'm sorry," she says softly.

"It's okay," he mumbles.

"No, it really isn't." Emma steps back, holding him by the shoulders and making him look up at her. "It's not okay, but I'm going to help make it that way again."

Now that she's able to properly look at him, she sees traces of the haunted eight-year old she'd been paired with so many years before. Her heart squeezes again, and he smiles, mostly for her but there's a trace of genuine gladness in it too. "Miss Swan," a stern voice says, snapping her out of her inspection, and Emma's blood runs cold for a moment.

Then it registers, and she relaxes upon seeing Regina. "Mrs. Hood," she says evenly, arching an eyebrow. "Still trying to scare the bejesus out of me."

"And doing quite well, I'd say," Regina says, and then gives her real smile, the one that never graces a courtroom. "As are you, it appears."

"All things considered," Emma replies.

Regina surprises her by embracing her briefly. Emma stiffens, and awkwardly hugs back. "Oh, um…"

"We missed you," she says, and Emma's bullshit detector doesn't even twinge.

David ruins the moment by slinging an arm around her and messing up her hair. "What's the point of you having a phone if you're never going to use it?"

"I do use it, just not to text stupid reminders like '_We'll be in the stables after_' or '_Mary's making pasta for dinner if you want some'_, like I don't know your routine or recognize the smell of tomato sauce," Emma retorts.

"Emma, we just thought that maybe you'd make some new friends and go out to dinner with them," Mary Margaret says, leaning out of Snow's stall and waving.

"Yes, _Mom_, I played nice with the other kids, and no, I wasn't invited to dinner."

Emma glances over and sees that Henry's biting his lip to keep from laughing. The tension she's carried all day started to fade as she slips into this familiar pattern like an old, comfortable pair of boots.

Even after five years away, David and Mary Margaret are more than happy to have her back at the Point - which she knows is a strange way to think of it, when she had originally lived there longer than Mary Margaret. But it belongs to David now (and Mary Margaret) since his mother's death five years ago, just after Emma had left. Now she even had her old room back, up in the renovated attic.

David was the closest thing she would ever have to a real brother. His family had taken her in when she was fifteen and given her a good home when she'd all but aged out of the system. He'd seen her at school, noticed her threadbare clothes, the shadows under her eyes, heard her story whispered in the halls. And as much as she'd pushed him away, he persisted. They'd had their ups and downs over the years but she'd never regretted David's offer for her to move in with his family.

She might not have made it _easy_ on them, but luckily the Nolans were just as stubborn as she was - and they'd had a few tricks of their own up their sleeves.

Then - because he was _David _\- he brought Mary Margaret home from college in their junior year. Emma had never thought she'd meet anyone nicer than the Nolans, but was promptly proven wrong upon meeting the sweet-natured Mary Margaret. The elementary education major had somehow fit seamlessly into life on the farm - and after graduation, she'd moved in and never left.

That was six years ago. Now, David rings the expected peal over Emma's head for the impractical clothes she chose to wear to the stables - ignoring her protests that technically she'd been at work first and was suitably dressed for her primary intentions of the day - and Henry goes back to prepping Bluff for the ride home. Emma takes about two minutes of David's well-intentioned lecture before holding up a hand to stop him. As she's about to speak, she hears an Irish drawl, "Dunno, mate, she certainly brings a level of _sophistication_ to the venue."

She turns, putting on her best dealing-with-smarmy-bastards face. "Killian Jones. It's nice to put a face to the name, or a refresher anyway."

His face has been in every major racing news outlet in three countries for four years now, and it's astounding she didn't recognize him sooner. Born and raised in Ireland, he'd made a name for himself amongst some of the most expensive and well-trained horseflesh in the world before packing his bags and heading Stateside. That had been three years ago. Once here, he drifted from stable to stable, turning some around completely or walking out on those he deemed hopeless - though the gossip said more than one owner had tossed Jones out on his ear for looking a little too long at their wives or daughters. The longest he had stayed anywhere was ten months, and the bloodlines of the yearlings at that stable looked promising in the coming seasons. He had a rare talent with horses and a rarer talent for dodging journalists. No one knew anything more about him than he ever let on. The hows or whys of him coming to put down some roots in Storybrooke, Maine have remained shrouded in mystery, one that most gossip rags would pay out the nose to discover. Killian Jones didn't _own_, he didn't _stay_.

Emma kind of admires that about him.

The flannel shirt is unbuttoned, revealing the faded t-shirt she'd seen him in before - so clearly he'd been mugging for the camera - and the Stetson is pushed high on his head to show off the way crow's feet crinkled at the corners of his seriously blue eyes when he grinned. "So, you've heard of me," he says.

Emma rolls her eyes. "Anyone who keeps track of these things knows the name Killian Jones, and anyone with money tries to figure out the best way to buy his good fortune."

"What can I say?" He bends a bit, invading her personal space to look her in the eye better and wink - or maybe show off his _stupidly_ long eyelashes-_really_, all the money she paid in mascara and those are _natural_? - before baiting her with, "I'm _very_ good at what I do. Care to see for yourself?"

There's no horse-sense at all in his tone and she almost smiles. "Thanks but no. I'm not in your business."

He laughs, and damn if the sound doesn't make her warm. "Oh, lass, I'd do any sort of business with you."

"Minor over here," Henry calls from Bluff's stall.

"Don't tell me no one's given the boy the talk," Killian says as he glances at Regina.

Regina gracefully arches an eyebrow while Henry responds with, "They have. I just don't want to hear anyone _talking_ with my sister."

Emma delights in Killian's confused expression as his head swivels between herself, Regina, and Henry, and Emma takes full advantage of the moment to extract herself from his burning gaze and personal space. She puts David between them. "Henry, I thought we'd go out sometime this week, hang out and do… whatever teenagers do these days."

"Aptly put," David teases, and she swats at him.

Henry leads Bluff out of the stall, and Regina strokes the stallion's neck as Henry thinks. "Tomorrow's Sunday so… whatever you want to do."

Familiar tactic. Emma feels her work is cut out for her "Oh, no, kid. This is all you. Lunch, brunch, paintball fight in the woods. You name it."

"Breakfast and we'll see."

He starts to lead Bluff out to the trailer. Regina gives Emma a 'well-what-can-you-do' look as she follows, and Emma silently agrees. Henry's going to take some work. Mary Margaret is leading Snow Dancer out when Regina calls, "Mr. Jones, what the hell are we paying you for if my son has to load Bluff by himself?"

Emma almost laughs at the look Killian shoots them before hurrying after the Hood-Mills family. Mary Margaret strokes Snow's neck. "I don't know what I'm paying you for either," she teases David, "when I just took care of her all by myself."

Emma immediately catches the look on David's face and promptly sticks her fingers in her ears, singing, "_Lalala, I'll see you at home, lalalalalalala!_" as she flees.

She's almost reached the perilous gravel path again when she hears a quiet, commanding voice behind her. "Why, if it isn't Miss Emma Swan. How nice to see you again."

This time her blood really does run cold. The last time she'd heard that voice - well, nothing good had been said that day by anyone, but she still has nightmares about that voice. (And if she's honest, dreams about what might have happened if that voice had said something different that day.) Still, she forces herself to face him. "Mr. Gold. It's nice to see you too. Spinner ran well today."

He gives her the barest smile - it doesn't reach his eyes, it never does. He's dressed as ever in a dark suit, his graying brown hair still hitting his collar. He leans on his cane as he shifts his weight to his good leg, and she hates that she knows it must not be bothering him as much on a day as nice as this one. "Aye, he did. A nice start to his last season, I can only hope he continues the trend," Mr. Gold says in that soft, awful voice.

She's a little proud of herself for hiding how much he freaks her out, the way he can make her shake just by looking at her or imagining what he might say. She smiles in return - hers doesn't reach her eyes either, not anymore. Not to him. "You're retiring him?"

"One last season, and then he's going out to stud. He'll be happy enough. Lazing about all day, eating when he pleases, wooing my mares."

"I see."

There's an undercurrent here, one very unlike the one Killian had given her earlier. She can sense he's going to say something and she doesn't want him to bring it up; she desperately can't talk about it with anyone-most of all him-but she holds her breath as he shifts his cane again. "But where are my manners," Mr. Gold says, flashing that not-a-smile. "You were on your way somewhere and I've held you up. It's good to see you so busy, Miss Swan. It certainly… explains much."

There it is, the veiled insult she's been expecting. She gives him the same not-a-smile. "Yes. But you're right, I do have plans this evening."

"As you were, then. I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other in the coming weeks of the meet."

She nods. "I'm sure we will."

Emma turns to go, and she's halfway out the door when he says, "I'll give your regards to my son, when he's allowed visitors."

Her blood runs cold and she's seized with the urge to go _now_, far away and fast. It takes all of her self-control not give him the satisfaction of seeing her run up the gravel path to the parking lot, Steve Maddens or no.

-/-

Killian's muscles ache after driving both Bluff and Spinner back to the farm, unloading them, and making sure the hands have gone through the feed and medication lists for all of their charges for the day. There's a pile of paperwork waiting for him in his office, but Killian knows his limits and he's had enough for the day. He'll just have to sacrifice some time in the ring in the morning for riding a desk instead.

There's leftover pizza in the fridge and beer on top. It's not exactly what one might call a celebratory dinner - both horses placed today, which is a celebration in and of itself with everything else going on around the Horn - and yet it's enough. Killian practically collapses onto his couch, both of his cats side-eyeing him from the windowsill, and opens his Guinness. Though he's had his fill of noise from the track, he turns on the television against the deafening silence of the house. He leaves it on Animal Planet as he munches on his cold pizza.

Not an altogether horrible first day, all things considered. Where the lad had been overeager to help, his mother and the Gold man had been perfectly content to stay in the clubhouse for the duration. Gold made his nerves stand on pins; the less direct involvement that _particular_ owner had, the happier everyone would be. Killian wonders if it was Gold's close connections with the incident that had occurred six months ago that made him so uneasy around the older man, or if it was something else.

Killian shakes his head. The deed was done, like it or not. Gold would be around, like it or not. And the lad…

The lad needed something.

Or perhaps some_one_, if the appearance of the angel - _Emma_ _Swan_, he corrects himself. He has ears, of course he'd heard her name in a building where sound carried on the slightest breeze - and the lad's reaction to her had anything to say about it. Henry had claimed her as his sister, but he doubts it was by blood. Regina could hardly be more than ten years Emma's senior, and from what he'd gathered about her late husband over the last few months, Daniel had been around the same age. Killian grins. Henry is forever after secrets and tricks, perhaps it's time to turn the tables on him. The lovely Miss Swan was prickly, to be sure, but he'd eat his hat if her reaction to him in the stable wasn't fueled at least partially by attraction.

A knock at the door brings him out of his thoughts. Si and Am dart under the couch as he vacates it. One of the stable hands is there, a lad not much older than Henry, looking contrite. "Mr. Jones, you said to come if Pride of War didn't eat, and -"

"He's colicky again, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright, I'll be down in a minute. Call Dr. Lucas, it's gone on long enough that she'll have to come give him a look over."

"Yes, sir, right away."

Killian closes the door, and runs his fingers through his hair as he looks for his old boots. Never a moment's peace.

-/-

Spaghetti night at the Nolans' usually involves a rain poncho. Emma's nephew, Leo, is a notoriously sloppy eater, something his mother (falsely) hoped kindergarten would have corrected by now. She makes sure to sit on the other side of the table from the kid, but it's a futile effort. In the end, David has to drag Leo upstairs for a post-dinner bath, while Emma and Mary Margaret wash not only the dishes, but some of the walls in the dining room as well. "Sorry," Mary Margaret says, grimacing. "We're really working on it, I promise…"

"He's a kid. They act out," Emma tells her, scrubbing hard at the wall.

"It feels like it's becoming some kind of complex."

"Yeah, well, that's what child psychologists are for, right?"

Mary Margaret shakes her head and doesn't respond. Instead, she changes the subject. "So, we didn't exactly get to talk yet. How was your first day back?"

Emma side-eyes her as she grabs the stain remover. "Fine."

"Meet anyone nice?" she asks, her voice a little too innocent.

Emma's eyes strain with the effort it takes not to roll them. Instead, she says, "No one told me someone had finally gotten Victor to settle down."

Mary Margaret smiles. "Ruby has her charms."

"She's good," Emma says. "Elsa too. There's a good team there - I'm not even needed."

"Oh, Emma, of course you are."

Emma pauses in her work for a split second before resuming. There's another layer there, always was when it came to encouragements from her sister-in-law, and it acts like a balm on her soul every time. She might not believe them, but Mary Margaret's words were always a kindness. "Snow ran well."

"She did, didn't she?" Mary Margaret beams. "I was worried she might not do so well after all this year, but she held her own against all those young things. Fourth is a fine placement."

Mary Margaret has a thing for rescuing horses; each time, she and David manage to turn her strays around for the better. Snow Dancer had been abused by her previous owner, and given her age, hadn't been expected to turn around well enough to compete. Nine was youngish for a horse, but old for a racer. Emma has only seen a few of their miracles in person, but each time she sees her sister-in-law's name amongst the winners, a faint, glowing pride blooms in her. Emma bumps her with her shoulder. "Not bad for a city slicker," she teases.

Mary Margaret flicks some soapy water at her in response and they finish in silence. Emma begins to think longingly of her pajamas and maybe vegging in front of the television for a while, though the responsible part of her says she should probably put on work clothes and help David and the hands turn down the stables for the night. As they go to clean up in the kitchen, Mary Margaret brightens. "Oh, I meant to ask. Have you met Killian Jones before? You seemed awfully familiar with each other."

There's _definitely_ not heat in her face, that's for sure. Emma dumps the bucket down the sink, ducking her head so her hair shields her cheeks. "We… were acquainted in the paddock this morning, but nothing else."

"Oh. I just mean, the way he talked to you…"

"Oh, I know the way he talked to me," Emma grumbles, washing up.

There's an amused hum behind her, and Emma knows _exactly_ what Mary Margaret is thinking. "Do not even start," she says.

"I didn't say anything!" Mary Margaret laughs, joining her at the sink to wash.

"You didn't have to. I know you."

"All I was going to say is that he seems to be doing a fine job at the Horn," she says, innocence lacing her tone. "Regina hasn't complained and you know how she can be about trainers. I don't know about any of the other owners, but no one has said a bad word around my ears. And Henry seems to be warming up to him as well."

That's good to hear. Emma shuts off the water, shaking droplets from her hands. "Speaking of, I should probably rest up if I'm hanging out with him tomorrow. Do you think the guys need a hand outside, or is it covered?"

Mary Margaret smiles at her kindly, tossing her a towel. "You know you don't have to do anything you don't want to here, Emma."

"And if I want to help down in the barn?" Emma raises an eyebrow.

"Then I'll direct you to the nearest pitchfork."

Emma flicks her sister-in-law with the towel, who laughs, and then she heads to the mud room for her shoes. "Then direct away."


	3. April 6

Sunday morning promises to play out similarly to Saturday, if the way Emma is wishing she'd swept her hair up says anything. She bounds up the short steps and rings the doorbell. She waits, envisioning having to tag team with Regina to drag the kid out of bed for their breakfast date - perhaps whacking him with his pillow a few times for good measure. She's kind of hoping Henry's ready to go already. It had been a hectic morning of toys and cereal everywhere at the Point and Emma had forgone coffee in favor of saving her own skin.

The door opens to reveal a man she doesn't recognize and Emma has to steel herself against backing up and checking to make sure it's the right house. His mussed hair, worn-out clothes, and the way he looks like she currently feels suggest he may have just come out of bed. "Hi…" Emma begins cautiously. "Is this… Does Henry Mills still live here?"

"Oh! Blimey, you must be Emma." Good Lord, he's English. "I'm so sorry, I forgot Regina said you were coming to collect Henry this morning. Come in, please."

Emma follows his wave for her to come in. This must be Regina's new husband, Robin - _new_ being the relative term. She remembers being told that they got married three years ago. "And you must be Robin. It's nice to finally meet you," she says, sticking out her hand.

Her (admittedly limited) opinion of him rises several notches when he shakes it firmly. "Likewise. Henry talks about you a lot," he says. "He's still upstairs, I think, let me just…"

"Papa, can we have pancakes?" a young male voice calls.

There's a lot of noise on the stairs; Emma whirls in time to see a child leap the last three stairs and crash-land on the floor. The boy freezes at the sight of her. Robin sighs behind her. "And that would be my son, Roland, who _knows_ better than to jump off the stairs, right? Because doing so means he loses a sticker?"

"Yes, Papa," Roland says, contrite. "I'm sorry for jumping down the stairs."

"If you help with the breakfast dishes, you'll get your sticker point back," Robin says, and Roland sighs in acknowledgement. "Now, is Henry awake?"

"I dunno. Who is this lady?"

Emma crouches, smiling. "Hey, Roland. I'm Henry's Big Sister. It's nice to meet you."

Roland frowns thoughtfully as Robin quietly excuses himself to go upstairs. "Henry doesn't have a sister, he just has a mommy. And we share her, even though I got another mommy, too."

Emma smiles wider, realizing the mistake brought on by lack of caffeine. "I'm a different kind of sister. Henry helps you when you're having problems, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well," she says, shifting her weight, "he didn't have anyone to do that for him, so Regina asked me to do that. Your papa said he talks about me. Do you remember him saying anything about someone named 'Emma'?"

Roland's eyes grow rounder. "_You're_ his Emma?! He _always_ talks about his Emma, and I said I wanted an Emma too but Papa and Momma told me not everyone gets to have an Emma!"

Emma laughs. Robin lumbers downstairs again. "He'll be down in a bit," Robin says.

She nods in response, and Roland blurts out, "Wanna see my Transformers?"

Emma glances up at Robin, who nods. She allows Roland to grab her hand and drag her off into the den.

-/-

Killian's phone buzzes, bringing him out of his training schedule haze. It's Henry, telling him he'll be in late that afternoon.

Tossing the phone back on the desk, Killian leans back in his chair, stretching. He's been at all of this blasted paperwork since seven, and his muscles are jittery from immobility. He lets his head fall back, and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He didn't sleep well the previous night. This is not an unusual occurrence in his life - half the reason he worked so hard was to keep out the dreams - but it would be nice if his budding caffeine immunity would bugger off. _Then again_, he thinks as he turns and eyes the pile of unopened mail on the desk, _it kind of numbs a man from feeling much_.

The unopened mail is piled up to an almost ridiculous amount now, backed up almost six months. It's nothing pressing - everything's been set up to be automatically deposited or paid for - just things he couldn't bring himself to open.

It's very difficult to open a dead man's mail. Even if (or perhaps _especially because?_) you never knew him personally.

Half a year is enough, he reasons. The sooner he gets it over with, the sooner any lingering ghosts might leave the shedrow. He grabs at the pile, and begins ripping into the envelopes; all of them are addressed to 'Graham Humbert'.

As expected, most of it is junk. There are a few queries about taking on new clients, but Killian recognizes no names and figures if they were serious about it they would have called. He rips all of it into pieces as he goes and drops them into the bin with the kind of glee that only comes from cleaning up. There's a weight in his chest lifting, one he hadn't realized he was carrying. Perhaps Graham's ghost had been lingering all this time.

_And perhaps I've had a few too many whiskies in the pub to be thinking like that_, Killian scolds himself as the last of the ghost drops into the bin. He's on his feet in the next moment - he's done the week's training schedule and entries over the next few months, he deserves some time in the saddle. Or on the end of a long line. Whichever comes first.

-/-

After spending twenty minutes being instructed in the correct way to stage an intergalactic robot war, Roland begging Henry to join in with his best Grimlock impression, and Robin finally intervening with the lure of pancakes, Emma and Henry escape the house for their own breakfast. Henry expresses surprise at her new ride ("The old Bug just got too expensive to maintain, kid." "But the new ones are so _ugly_, Emma.") and she grills him about school on the ride over to their favorite diner.

There are familiar faces everywhere. Better, their favored booth is free. Henry slips in, and the waitress is prompt in bringing water and asking Emma about coffee. Emma slides into her seat with an affirmative as the waitress obliges her. "Is it too hot for cocoa?" Henry asks after the waitress leaves with drink orders to let them to look at the menus.

Emma sips at her coffee; she also has cocoa coming, but caffeine first. She eyes him over the rim of her mug. "I have definitely been out of town too long if you're asking me that."

Henry's grin is shameless. He pours over the menu. "How many waffles you think I can eat at once?" He asks.

"With a side or not?"

"With."

Emma regards him for a moment. She privately wonders if he still has ambitions for jockey school, but at the same time doesn't want to encourage bad habits. She's seen her fair share of jocks getting carted off to eating disorder rehab. "Three."

They order, and all during breakfast Emma carefully keeps their conversation away from anything horse-related. She knows Henry loves them and wants to work with them in some way when he gets older, but Emma is a firm believer in making sure Henry is a well-rounded kid. Regina agreed, back when they'd been paired in the Big Brothers Big Sisters program. A few hours every day away from the stables and focused on another hobby or at least his growing piles of schoolwork did him a lot of good.

Henry fills her in on finer details of his life. They've kept up through sporadic emails and phone calls over the last five years, but haven't had a face-to-face conversation since she left. Guilt bites at her about it as he talks about Roland and Robin - he's told her before about adjusting to a new stepfather and stepbrother, but it's different to talk about it in person. Emma reads body language well, and she can pinpoint where he's uncomfortable or having issues, where language in an email or a voice on the phone is less easy to spot.

He also avoids talking about the other big change in his life, which is ultimately the reason why she came back.

Emma isn't particularly looking forward to discussing how the murder of Graham has affected him. (She isn't looking forward to thinking about how it has affected her either, but she's able to compartmentalize that.) She'd seen it on his face the day before, and hints of it there today, but she's waiting for him to bring it up. First rule of child psychology (which is not an area she's an expert in, but coupled with her own crappy childhood, she's had a crash course or two) is not to force an issue. Henry would talk about it in his own time if she just gave him the safe space to do so.

Instead, he tells her about the newest video game he's working through as she pays and they head back to the car. "I'm just figuring out which character I should romance, Dorian or Josephine, because - "

Emma side-eyes him. "And your mother is buying you these games with full knowledge of what goes on in them?"

She can practically hear him roll his eyes. Damn, kid had picked up on her habits too quickly. "They don't _show_ anything. Okay, they _do_ show the girls' - "

"But Regina knows what she's buying you?" Emma interrupts, not wanting to hear him say the word 'boobs'.

"_Yes_, Emma, she knows. She's not _entirely_ happy about it, but as long as Roland doesn't see, she said I'm allowed."

Emma hems in annoyance, but doesn't say anything further on the subject. "So, what do you want to do now?"

He buckles his seatbelt. "Can we go to the beach?"

"Henry, the ocean's like twelve degrees."

He gives her a look in response, and she cracks a smile. "Fine. But if you want to go swimming, you get to explain to your mother why you have hypothermia."

He rolls his eyes, and she drives. He's quiet on the way, watching the woods melt into the Maine coastline. Emma glances at him now and again, seeing the shadow coming back. She can't get to the public beach fast enough.

It's deserted - of course it is; no matter how sunny it is, it's still April. Henry leaves his shoes and socks in the car; Emma brings out her emergency flip-flops. _Might leave a pair in the car and the office_, she muses as they walk onto the sand.

Henry does let the waves break over his feet, hollering the whole time from the cold; Emma laughs as he dances away from the rushing water. They start walking down the beach, looking for anything interesting washed up on the shoreline. She doesn't say anything, sensing he's trying to find the right words, and points out seashells or egg sacs instead.

They are about half a mile away from the car when Henry sits down on the sand, digging into it with some driftwood. "Did you know he was gonna do it?" he asks finally.

Emma closes her eyes for a moment. Of course the first question he asks is the one she's dreading the most. She sits down next to him, ditching her flip-flops to dig her toes into the sand. "No," she answers, and she feels him relax next to her. "For a long time, I didn't know what was going on with him. But I knew _something_ was going to happen and I knew that I didn't want any part of it."

"And that's why you left."

He sounds so dejected. There's years of unsaid words, unsaid feelings between them. She's pretty sure there are not enough words in the world to explain why she'd gone; why she'd left him when she'd all but promised she wouldn't. But she also had promised him that she'd never lie to him, and she has yet to break her streak. "Yeah. I left because of him."

"Did he want to hurt you?"

"No, I don't think so." Not in the way he means, but she doesn't want to say that part aloud.

"Do you think he got worse because you left?" Henry wants to know. "Because Mom says the evidence goes back a long time, but it got worse after you left."

Emma's heart is breaking all over again, like the day she got the phone call about Graham being found in the stables with a broken neck, or when she'd been interviewed for the witness stand but deemed to have too little or outdated information to present in court. Of course Regina found out everything she could. Even though she hadn't been a lawyer involved in the case, she had probably been a witness in the trial. Emma stares out at the waves crashing into the breakwater. "I don't know."

She's still being honest with him. She doesn't know if she was ever Neal's moral compass. She doesn't know if leaving him had driven him over the edge, or if he'd been heading that way before she'd gotten out. She can't even remember how often they'd talked those last few months, just that it hadn't been enough - that _she_ hadn't been enough for _him_. She doesn't know how she could have done anything differently, if she could have tried harder or if anything could have been stopped, if anyone's lives could have avoided this much heartache.

And sometimes, not knowing the truth is worse than being completely certain of it.

-/-

The sun is warm on his back, and all Killian wants to do is throw himself in the horse trough. But he loves his charges too much to poison them with himself, and satisfies his urge by doffing his hat and dumping half his water bottle over his head, letting the cool water roll down his neck and settle into the cloth of his shirt. "I hope you're charging for this," a female voice calls.

His head swivels in the direction the voice came from, and his heart skips a beat. He frowns slightly at that, filing that thought away to think about later, and hails Henry and Emma Swan as they come up the drive. He's amused to note that Emma's cheeks are pink - or perhaps she, too, is affected by the heat. He put his hat back on, slipping into an easy flirtation as they come to lean against the fence. "I have to attract clients somehow, Miss Swan. I'm not above playing to one's baser needs."

Henry rolls his eyes. "Okay, if I'm not allowed to talk about romancing anyone in Dragon Age…"

Killian chuckles as Emma grabs the lad in a headlock, ruffling his hair. Henry shrugs her off, fighting to hide a smile. Her hands linger on his shoulders, squeezing them in mild affection before she lets him go. It appears that Killian's thoughts the night before were correct: Henry looks less haunted today, reflecting how Killian feels after tackling his unpleasant chore that morning. "Blackheart has been pining for you, lad," he tells the boy.

"Can I take him around the oval?" Henry asks, eyes hopeful.

Killian hesitates. Blackheart can be spirited even for _him_ to handle. But the stallion belongs to the boy's mother, and he _does_ know what he's doing - most of the time. Henry pouts a little more, and Killian resolves to have a word with him about age and proper begging procedure. "Fine. But stay off the backstretch and the far turn."

Henry whoops and trots off towards the stable. Emma watches him go, a wistful look in her eyes. When he vanishes through the door, she sighs and pushes off the fence. "Well, if he's off to work, I should leave him to it."

"Not a rider, Miss Swan?" Killian asks.

She flashes him a smirk and his heart does that beat-skipping again. Her hazel eyes are almost sultry as she regards him, warming him in ways the sun never could, and she says, "I'm no stranger to a saddle _or_ the track, Mr. Jones."

It sounds like a challenge, with a hint of a warning. He grins slowly, deciding that he rather likes the prickly Emma Swan. She's lovely to look at, to be sure - and stirs him in ways he hasn't felt in a very long time - but he likes anyone who can keep him on his toes. "That sounds like an invitation, love."

Her eyebrow twitches. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Killian wonders how quickly he can make her twitch again. "I might. But in all fairness, I can't assess your skills without observing your form first. Now, I like long legs on a lady as well as the next lad, me, but to scrunch yourself up in the irons like that…" He shrugs.

There's that twitch and he can't help it: he smirks. She huffs at him. "There's all kinds of ways to ride, Jones."

_Sure, and it's a cold shower for me this night_, he thinks. He has a brief vision of wild golden hair swaying above him, her lovely face alight in ecstasy. "How is it," he asks, casually leaning on the fence in her absence, "we always get back to this point?"

He almost laughs at the expression on her face, as if she's not sure whether to be amused or annoyed with him - or perhaps herself as she realizes her mistake in words. "I have a feeling you're about to tell me, but you can keep it to yourself. I should be getting back to _my _Point."

"May I remind you that _you_ started this today, Swan?" he calls after her as she goes.

"Good_bye_, Mr. Jones."

-/-

His chuckle follows Emma up the driveway, simultaneously warming her and sending goosebumps rippling down her skin. _He's not _that _attractive_, she tells herself. So what gives?

Okay, so seeing him pour his water bottle over himself like he was in his own GQ: Cowboy Edition photo shoot or something was more than a little hot, and he seems to know how to turn a conversation dirty in zero-point-two seconds flat. She doesn't deny that there's some chemistry sizzling between them - Jesus, three conversations and he's already peppered multiple innuendos throughout two of them. She's just got Henry and her job and her family right now. That's enough for her.

She has to let it be enough.

She rests her head on her steering wheel for a moment. Killian Jones owns the Horn now. The rest of her conversation with Henry earlier about Graham's murder, her ex-boyfriend's subsequent arrest, and the fallout in their lives echoes in her mind. Just coming to the Huntsman's Horn once has unsteadied her nerves. She and Graham hadn't been close, but they'd been friendly. And Neal…

She sighs and starts the car. She can't imagine how Henry has kept coming back day after day.

Killian's face swims to the forefront of her mind, and she smirks to herself.

Okay, maybe she could see it a little.


	4. April 6-10

Henry has good form in the saddle. He doesn't bounce, he rides exactly like one should - as if the horse were an extension of himself. _He's had good teachers_, Killian thinks as he watches from the rail. _If he's serious about the schooling, he'll do well. _Henry flies by again on Blackheart. Shade paws at the dirt as she, too, watches, and Killian idly pats her nose to calm her. Henry circles Blackheart around again and waves. "Can we time my next run?" he calls. "He feels faster today."

Killian clicks his tongue and Shade stills enough for him to mount up and head into the circle. "You can time it yourself, lad. You know the rules."

Henry sighs dramatically, and Killian bites back a grin. He definitely _hopes_ the boy goes for his jockey license - if only because Killian can finally clock Henry for all of the official paperwork and stop the theatrics. His workout rules are there for a reason, but far be it from fifteen-year old boys to accept them willingly. "_Fine_," the boy says. "Can we race, then?"

"Why else did I go through all this trouble?" Killian gestures to Shade's tack. "Let me warm up, meet you in the chute."

Killian takes Shade around the far side of the oval, his muscles protesting as they ease back into form. _There's nothing quite like the feeling of twelve hundred pounds of horse cantering under a person_, he thinks as Shade turns into the stretch. It's just himself and the rush of the wind in his ears and the jolt of hitting the ground before taking off again… and it's exhilarating.

Blackheart fidgets as Killian canters up to the chute. "I always feel like he knows a race is coming, even when we're just having fun," Henry says. "Watching you come up, it felt like he knew."

"Aye, lad, they're born to it. They can smell competition," Killian says, only slightly teasing. "You think you're up for a full mile?"

Henry considers it. "Blackheart's broken in, but you'll slow Shade down…"

Killian exaggerates a scoff at the the implication. The lad must be feeling better if he's starting to mouth off. "Are you insulting my girlish figure, boy?"

Henry grins and wheels Blackheart around. "Come on, old man," he challenges.

They meet at the pole, and Henry counts them down. At the one, both kick their horses into a full gallop. It's only ninety seconds from end to end, but everything in the world slows down for those ninety seconds. Killian can only hear the breath he labors to take in against the wind. The rush of blood and adrenaline in his ears blocks out even the thunder of eight hooves slapping the ground at sixty-five kilometres per hour and his vibrating bones are the only reminder that he is _not _made of air and wind and flight.

Birds can keep their wings. This is the only way to fly.

It's ninety seconds from end to end, and they match pace every step of the way, but at eighty-five Blackheart goes soaring ahead. The sound returns and Henry whoops with joy, standing higher in the irons, raising his fist in victory. Killian begins to laugh, and reins Shade in as they cross the line. "Well done, lad!"

Henry twists to look behind him, grinning, but the grin turns to shock as his left foot slips from the stirrup. Killian yanks up to a full halt as Henry falls, landing in the dirt with a yelp; Shade rears, unhappy with his treatment of her, and Killian fights her to settle, sliding off at the first opportunity. She trots away to join Blackheart around the bend as Killian runs over to where Henry lay. "Lad! Henry, are you alright?"

His heart races - _please no, please be alright_ \- until Henry rolls over, coughing. "Holy shit," the boy manages, and Killian starts to laugh again - out of fear or relief, he's not sure.

He kneels in the dirt, helping the boy sit up. "Let's not tell your mother about that in our report," Killian says.

"What, me falling or me swearing?" Henry asks, and Killian laughs again.

"The latter. She'll wonder if I'm horsewhipping you if you come home with the bruises I know you're getting."

Henry shrugs and checks himself. He landed his side, so his hip will be one enormous bruise come tomorrow, but his color is returning and there's no outward sign of anything broken. Killian breathes a quiet sigh of relief. Henry flashes a quick grin. "I'm good. But…" His face falls, and a surge of fear overwhelms Killian momentarily. "Don't tell Emma, okay? You can tell my mom, but just… don't mention this to Emma."

Killian raises an eyebrow and helps Henry to his feet. "Come on, let's find where our charges have run off to."

It's easier to hop the fence and catch up with the horses, and it's been dry lately so the infield isn't made of mud. Killian punctuates their trek with the thought that's been bothering him since yesterday: "You said Miss Swan was your sister. You'll forgive me for having to call bullshit on the matter."

Henry snickers. "She is, though. There's this program - Big Brothers Big Sisters - and my mom enrolled me after my dad died. I was eight then. Emma was my match."

"Ah."

"Usually they only do same sex matches, but I guess there weren't enough guys or something, so I got stuck with Emma. She turned out to be pretty cool, though. She helped me out a lot, even after she left."

Killian suspects there's a little more under that statement, but it's not his place to pry. Henry climbs over the decorative rocks in the middle of the infield. "She just… she worries. About me. Like, a lot. So I don't want her to know - even if everything is okay - because she'll worry anyway."

The lad jumps down, proving how fit he really was - or denying how much the impact must have hurt, either one a macho show for no one's benefit but his own. "Sounds like you have two mams then," Killian comments.

"Feels like it sometimes… but Emma's a cooler version of a mom, I guess. So she really is just a big sister to me," Henry says with a grin.

They duck under the fence, where Blackheart and Shade are chasing one another in some horse game of tag. Killian and Henry work to calm them down, corralling them and finally looping the reins around their hands to bring them back for a grooming. "Henry," Killian says as they come into the stables, "if she truly cares about you, she'd want to know."

Henry looks back at him as he leads Blackheart to the cross ties. "I know," he says, hooking on the clips and uncinching the saddle. "But sometimes it feels like I'm the only person she really worries about, and maybe I should let her worry about someone else for a change."

Killian's brow furrows in contemplation. He's seen that in their interactions, however limited his exposure has been. He's seen it in the way Emma's hands are careful and strong and sure, the way her gaze lingers too long when Henry walks away from her and she loses that abrasive, acidic armor she puts up around Killian. He's not sure how long it's been since they've seen each other last - not his place to ask, not Henry's job to tell him. Half a year (at least) is an eternity to a fifteen-year old, and it occurs to Killian, now, that in the wake of the recent scandal and loss, the lethal combination of time and tragedy might result in the same for a woman Emma's age.

_But perhaps_, he thinks, _cygnets are more willing to stand up and try again than Swans_.

-/-

Emma should really have learned by now that weeks that simultaneously fly and crawl by will lead to no good.

In addition to changing up her work wardrobe to be more all-terrain, she stashes a pair of emergency flip-flops under her desk. She also ignores the smirk Ruby wears while Emma does this, as well as the pointed neutral expression on Elsa's face while she compresses data on her computer - abso_lutely_ not looking at what Emma is doing, nope. Monday and Tuesday go by smoothly, as everyone on her team has the kinks worked out from opening day. At the end of the day on Tuesday, Ruby suggests that, as they have Wednesday off, they go out after work for a celebratory drink. "Just us girls," she says with a wink when Victor starts naming off local watering holes. Her boyfriend looks wounded, and Emma and Elsa have to look away from each other else they burst out laughing.

Emma hasn't been out with "just us girls" in a very, very long time. She's never sure if it's just her or if it's the nature of the field she's in, but having both Ruby and Elsa at the helm with her means more regular contact with women than she's had in several years. If there were drinks to be had after work, Emma always filled the role of 'another one of the guys'. So when she texts Mary Margaret a quick '_going for drinks, count me out for dinner_', she does so with not an inconsequential amount of anticipation.

Mary Margaret replies with the happiest of emojis, no less than three party poppers, and the… one that was a disco ball that showered confetti? Emma shakes her head and puts her phone away as she follows Elsa and Ruby down the stairs. Her sister-in-law definitely needed something else to take up her time if she still had enough energy - after teaching all day, taking care of Leo, and helping David around the farm? - to be that concerned about her social life.

Still. It _was_ kind of nice to have someone be _that_ excited about the prospect of Emma making friends.

Drinks turn into food that isn't just fried bar fare - though there's plenty of that too. Emma tries to keep herself in check when it comes to the alcohol - mixed drinks, nothing straight. Elsa's drinking lightly too. Ruby, however, makes herself right at home and steals half of Emma's chili-cheese fries. When asked if she'd like her own (Emma _definitely_ isn't brandishing her fork as a weapon at this point), Ruby just grins, dodges Emma's attempts at defending her food, and steals another. "I'm good."

The third round of drinks also brings Elsa (who is definitely more buzzed from three light beers than Emma has ever experienced, but maybe she doesn't get out much) fully out of her shell, in the form of dragging both Emma and Ruby up to the karaoke machine. Emma is steadfastly against singing in public, buzzed or not, but her attempts at sneaking back to their table are thwarted repeatedly - ending up with Elsa's arm firmly around her waist and Ruby holding her hand while both of them insist on singing their way through most of The Supremes discography. Emma mumbles for most of it, until Elsa selects the next two songs. "You dirty cheater," she says as one of her favorite strains of music pump through the speakers.

Elsa hip-checks her, laughing as she stumbles a bit, just as she starts the first stanza of "Stop! In the Name of Love". _Oh, what the hell_, Emma thinks. There's only about seven other people in the joint, she might as well. She grabs what's left of her drink, downs it, and joins in.

* * *

"Shit," Emma says as the three women sit against her car, Elsa's head on her shoulder.

"S'not my fault you're lightweights," Ruby mumbles, her head in Elsa's lap.

Three rounds of drinks had turned into five - not counting the freebies Ruby had conned for all of them as the night wore on. Even Elsa had given up on the light stuff after a while. They'd only just managed to stop Ruby from turning full Coyote Ugly as the bar filled up and it was then that Emma and Elsa agreed it was time to go home. Unfortunately, by then all of them had drunk so much that they'd forgotten the necessity of a designated driver - particularly since Emma hadn't planned on getting this drunk. Elsa's sister's down in Boston for the night, so that led to a smug phone call with David. Now that they're waiting, they'd all had a chance to sit and process the alcohol in their bodies, to varying degrees of unhappiness. Ruby's the worst off, but not by much.

_David_, Emma thinks woozily, _is going to be insufferable about this hangover in the morning_.

Her brother's no stranger to a drink, but his true passion lay in rubbing salt in the wounds of others - because he's _David_ and David doesn't get hangovers.

He's _really_ lucky she likes him.

Ruby groans and tucks herself further into a ball; Elsa smooths her hair soothingly. "Please tell me you aren't going to be sick, I like these shoes."

"No promises…"

Emma leans her head against Elsa's, willing the dizziness to pass. "How long ago did I call?"

"Million years ago," Ruby mumbles.

"We could have saved time and called your boyfriend, instead of waiting for Prince Charming to ride all the way out from the hinterlands for a dashing rescue," Elsa scolds.

Emma makes a mental note to be impressed at Elsa's drunk-vocabulary when her head isn't spinning. Meanwhile, Ruby flicks her the evil eye. "F'you think Victor's any better'n me right now, y'don't know him. The hell is a 'hinterland' 'nyway?"

The entire situation clicks in her head, the ridiculousness of it all, and Emma starts to laugh. She hasn't even been home a full week, and here she is: a grown woman sitting next to her car with two of her coworkers outside of a bar, drunk on a Tuesday night. Ruby groans and fails to cover her ears properly. "No loud noises!" she whines as Elsa catches the giggles too.

"This is so stupid," Emma says between laughter.

When David and one of the overnight farm hands pull up in his old pickup a few minutes later, they find Emma and Elsa sprawled on the pavement, crying with laughter. Only Ruby notices their arrival, as she's propped up against the Bug and torn between laughing with them and yelling at them to be quiet.

* * *

The next morning finds Emma, Elsa, and Ruby draped over one another on the fold-out couch in the living room. They're rudely awakened around nine in the morning by David; Emma resolves to either beat him with the airhorn someone had mistakenly thought was a good idea to give to him or shove it up his ass.

Whenever her head stopped spinning, that is.

* * *

On Thursday, Ruby comes in and hands Emma the mail that's been piling up in the media mailbox. She hadn't known such a thing existed, but she couldn't be bothered to fuss with it for the moment: they'd had a brownout overnight and most of her switcher functions were glitching, plus Elsa had called to say she wasn't sure if she'd be able to make it in before the first post time.

It's not until she gets home and empties her purse that Emma remembers the stack of mail to go through. She sets up shop next to Leo and lets him destroy the junk mail while David gets the pizza ready - really, it's just takeout, but he's _David_ and likes to present the illusion. There's a pizza tray stand and everything. It's ridiculous.

Emma pauses at one envelope; the thickness betrays its importance, and she opens it carefully. It's an invitation. "What the fff-heeeeeck is this?" she asks, quickly censoring herself in front of her nephew. She'll let the stable hands teach Leo to swear; she's not going to risk getting on Mary Margaret's bad side.

David walks in with the pizza stand. "What's what?"

She hears the back door slam open and close, boots being hastily kicked off, and Mary Margaret's voice calling, "I'm coming, hang on!" as the water starts running - riding class is finished.

"What's this about some kind of… party?" Emma asks, brandishing the invitation.

Mary Margaret rushes in, throwing the dish towel down next to her as she sits with a gusty sigh. "Made it. Okay. What's the question?"

David kisses the top of his wife's head before dropping a slice of pizza on her plate. "Emma seems to be uninformed about the soiree next weekend."

She sets everything aside as David serves her, and then Leo - she's sitting next to him, so she gets to cut up the slice to five-year-old eating standards. Mary Margaret glances at the torn paper mess and raises an eyebrow in a challenge. "I'll clean it up," Emma says hastily. "What _soiree_," the word cannot possibly escape her with more sarcasm, "is happening that they have to break out the engravers?"

"It's something they started a little while back," Mary Margaret explains. "It's a bit of a get-together, lets everyone who will be working together over the course of the meet get to know one another on a more personal level. It's fun."

The invitation is professionally engraved, and the words "black-tie event" are on it. Emma doesn't need to know that more than half of the owners, and quite a few of the trainers, in the meet are rolling in it to suspect this is a little above her station in life. And just because the Point is a modest-_looking_ farm doesn't mean she isn't well-aware that David isn't hurting for cash either. "Are they sure they want the media crew there?" she asks, finishing fixing Leo's plate and moving on to her own dinner.

Mary Margaret fidgets. David answers instead. "I think, on the stand side of things, it might just be the heads of department. I don't recall seeing the others there last year, but something may have come up."

Emma's eyebrow twitches. _Great, I _really _want to spend my Sunday evening surrounded by snobby rich people_, she thinks. Aloud, she cautiously maneuvers the conversation into risky territory. "Doesn't really sound like my kind of thing."

As she suspected, Mary Margaret's expression falls just short of devastation. "Oh, Emma, don't be like that! It'll be fun, I promise!"

Emma eyes her skeptically. David talks around a mouthful of pizza, "Well… not _fun_, exactly," he says, swallowing, and Emma remembers where Leo gets his stellar table manners from, "but it's nice to catch up with everyone in a way that doesn't involve taking most of their money." Emma smiles weakly at his joke. "And you'll know or remember most everyone there."

"That's kind of what I'm afraid of," she mumbles, and she takes a huge bite to prevent herself from saying anything further.

She misses the look they exchange.

-/-

"Aye, and it's a cold day in hell you'll have me strung up by me own tie to be poked and sneered at by the gentry," Killian snaps. He's entirely too working class to feel comfortable with this banquet the track is throwing, and just because Regina is paying him to keep the money flowing into her pocket doesn't mean she's also paying him to be a performing monkey.

She's undeterred. It's Friday, and he should be at the track with Malcolm and Gold's entries, but there's too much work to be done around the farm. He's sent his top assistant Will instead. Regina had come up to the house after her own work hours to discuss breeding options for Heart, and somehow the banquet next weekend had come up for discussion. Killian still isn't sure how they'd gotten there.

She's made herself quite at home in his house - drinking his brandy and treating the recliner like a throne - and his traitor cats have taken a shine to his boss. Si has draped herself across Regina's shoulders, and if they couldn't hear Am purring away on her lap back in Ireland, he'd eat his riding crop. "Mr. Jones, we run in a very small circle around these parts," Regina says. "But this circle is connected to others. Better ones. An idiot turns his nose up at this kind of opportunity. If you want good references and connections for when you decide to pick up your bags and hit the road again, the smart man would ask how to do up his tie properly for a hanging and smile his thanks through any insults that are thrown his way."

Killian grinds his teeth together and takes another swig of his own brandy. Regina continues, "But, seeing as how you're one of the most sought-after trainers in the country right now, I personally don't see why you have anything to fear. It'll be all gilded promises and fat stacks of cash for you."

_Socializing with the nobles_, he thinks bitterly. He can hear his brother taking the piss out of him now, not to mention all the folks back home who'd thought he'd never make anything of himself.

He thinks of what old Mr. McCloud would say, slumped over the bar in the village pub with a half-drunk bottle of Jameson - he died years back, but the old man's bite (real or imagined) stings as bad now as it did when he was twelve. "_Oh, you think you're so great now, aye? Well you're _nothing_, boy, remember that, you started off shoveling dung and that's where you'll stay."_

Killian focuses his attention back on his employer. "And how fired am I if I refuse anyway?"

Regina shrugs. "It's hardly worth my time to pick up and move three Thoroughbreds, let alone find someone else to train them who isn't also invested. I can hardly have Nolan doing it, can I?" She grins and there's no warmth to it. "It's as I said, Mr. Jones. This is networking and mingling." She takes one more sip out of her glass of brandy, and carefully untangles herself from his cats. "Are you a smart man, or are you an idiot?"

Killian watches her without hiding his irritation. "You wouldn't have allowed me to buy the farm if I were an idiot, Mrs. Hood," he tells her retreating back.

She pauses at the door, and glances over her shoulder at him. She's sin wrapped in a self-satisfied smirk. "Better dress warmly next weekend, Mr. Jones."


	5. April 16-20

Clothes cover every free surface of furniture. Emma stands in the middle of the disaster zone with a helpless expression on her face when Mary Margaret, Elsa, and Ruby enter the attic. Ruby freezes at the top of the stairs at the sight. "Oh… God," Elsa says, blinking a few times. She actually moves a few things from a chair to sit down, apparently reeling in shock.

"Help," Emma declares, trying not to whine. She feels pathetic enough without her voice betraying her.

Mary Margaret props her hands on her hips, takes one look around the room - at the skin-tight short dresses that could hardly be called 'cocktail' length and the leather jackets, the designer stilettos nabbed for a song at factory outlet clearance sales, the cheap jewelry that held up under a passing glance but failed in an instant to any trained eye - and shakes her head. "This will not do."

Elsa and Ruby murmur their agreement. Elsa gently lifts up a black leather dress, giving it a critical once-over. "Is this… all of it?"

And Emma _likes _that dress. "Oh, God," she moans, dropping her head into her hands.

"You don't like shopping?" Ruby asks in disbelief.

Emma glances up through her fingers. Mary Margaret shakes her head again, folding up a jacket and placing it on the bed out of habit. "Not without hugely discounted price tags or with our credit card," she confirms.

Ruby's grin is back in full-force, the wicked one with too many teeth, as she prances over the maze of shoes on the floor and grabs Emma's hand. "Oh, _God_," Emma whines as she's led down the stairs.

* * *

Entering the banquet hall makes her suddenly grateful for Mary Margaret's insistence on buying her the strapless, floor-length red dress. What felt overwhelming in the dressing room now pales in comparison to the glittering peacocks that fill the room. Emma knows most of the people here on sight by now, and it's amazing to see most of them out of their usual working clothes. "A _little _get-together?" she hisses in Mary Margaret's ear as an honest-to-God waiter offers them flutes of champagne.

"Emma, you stole and are currently wearing my diamond earrings, not to mention one of my gold bracelets. You have officially forfeited your right to complain," Mary Margaret replies calmly, taking a glass for herself and for David.

Emma grinds her teeth together in some semblance of a smile as she accepts a glass of her own. "It's not stealing if I plan on giving it back."

Her sister-in-law hums in response, linking her arm around her husband's. They make an elegant picture, Mary Margaret in a dress made of blue so pale to almost appear white and David in his tuxedo. Emma takes another look around the room and fights the urge to gulp the champagne every time she raises her glass for a sip.

Mary Margaret's voice raises in a happy cry. Emma turns to see another woman, her dress a pale yellow that makes her dark brown hair look all the more dramatic, hurry over to embrace Emma's sister-in-law. "I didn't realize you were back yet. I would have called! How was Argentina?"

The new woman smiles. "I think I've been home for about twelve hours, so I won't fault you." Emma can't place her accent, though it's clear from how diluted and blurred it is that she's transplanted a few times. When had Storybrooke become so cosmopolitan? "Argentina was really good. We might be making some purchases, there's real promise in what I saw. How have things been? And who is this?"

She turns her attention to Emma, smiling kindly. Emma fears her smile in return might be a little too tight-lipped. "Emma. Emma Swan," she says, sticking her hand out.

The woman's eyebrows go up in recognition as they shake hands. "_The_ Emma Swan?"

David notices the panic growing in Emma's expression. "Emma, this is Belle, she's Gold's wife."

Emma throws an accusing look at David - _that's supposed to _help_?_ \- and he shrugs a little helplessly. He _knows_ how she feels about Gold, he didn't need to be so… _careless_ about it. Belle hesitates for a moment, then says, "I'm sorry, I think that came out a little… too accusatory. I just meant… I've heard of you, that's all."

"Still not sure if that's a good or a bad thing," Emma says under her breath. She finds the marble pattern on the floor very interesting to look at while she takes another sip of champagne, willing the anxiety crawling under her skin to go away. Of course, as Neal's… geez, stepmother? That's not weird or anything, Belle hardly looks much older than Neal. If Belle's married to his father, Emma supposes Neal probably would have said something about her around them. Or Gold had.

Emma's not sure which of those is less appealing.

"Hey," Belle says, and Emma glances up at her through her eyelashes. Belle's smiling. "If it helps, most of it's from Mary Margaret and David. I help Mary rehabilitate her strays. My husband and stepson didn't really talk much in the last few years, so I can't say I've heard much about you from them other than in passing."

Emma's anxiety begins to fade. "Oh." And then a vague memory of a phone call with Mary Margaret a year or so ago comes back to her. She hadn't paid much attention at the time, most things concerning the Gold family were quickly blocked out, but the words 'new wife' and 'rehab assistant' stuck out. "Right. Sorry."

Belle's smile is kind, and Emma notes how different she comes across from her husband. _There's a story there_, she thinks. She might even be able to hear it someday.

David taps her arm. "Come on, let's see if we can find a table without getting stopped seventeen times."

Emma smiles wryly. "Good luck with that." But she follows his lead - a little reluctantly, yes - into the crowd.

-/-

The whisky helps.

Talk centers around horses, but it's zeroed in on the sales, the purses, the bloodlines of the next big _investment_. Killian has bitten his tongue more times than he can count when some eejit or other goes on about 'the investment'. _It's not an 'investment', it's a living, breathing animal!_ he wants to shout, but he's here to pay lip service. He has to behave.

So the whisky helps.

Two of his three employers are accounted for - he saw Gold and Malcolm holding court by the doors to the veranda earlier. The fact that he hasn't spotted Regina means nothing; there are over two hundred people here. It doesn't stop his eye from wandering towards the entrance every few minutes. All he wants is to prove to her that he was in attendance and slip out quietly, and the woman has the gall to not show up herself? He takes another irritated sip. The glass freezes against his lips when he sees Emma Swan enter with the Nolans.

She's a vision in red, with her hair braided and coiled around her head into some sort of curled ponytail. Killian watches her over the rim of his glass as she greets the young Mrs. Gold, who is as warm and lovely as her husband is shrewd. He keeps one eye on Emma as the conversation around him continues into the upcoming stakes races; Killian doesn't need to say anything to participate, he knows which horses will win and how much of the purse he'll be taking home with him. Emma is a more interesting subject as she passes through the crowd, following Mr. Nolan and greeting most of those she encounters. There's something about her smile, he decides. Something about how it doesn't quite light up her face the way it properly should, and he wonders if it's the person or the situation that's forcing her guard up.

A question distracts him, and when he's able to look again, he's lost sight of her in the crowd. _Ah well. Perhaps it's not so bad sticking it out after all_, he thinks as he forces a smile of his own when someone else comes up to introduce themselves.

-/-

Emma hears the first whisper from someone passing behind them as dinner plates are cleared. Though after that first brush of anxiety with Belle earlier, she's braced for it and lets the comment roll off her. _This is nothing_, she tells herself. _Just like the bullies in school, and here you're _definitely _not allowed to punch them._

She seems to be the only one who hears and that's fine. She doesn't need anyone picking her battles for her. Mary Margaret dominates the conversation over dessert with a plan to renovate one of the unused barns in the coming summer, with David interjecting possible plans to renovate the house. At one point, Regina excuses herself to call Henry and Emma takes opportunity to look past the empty seat at Robin. "So, Robin. Henry mentioned you were a doctor of some kind?"

Robin grins. "I am, but think more Dr. Jones, not McDreamy. I work at the university - environmental science."

The name Jones calls to mind the afternoon at the Horn two weeks ago - and damn if it's not replaying in slow-motion, the water falling over his head and down his back. Emma jerks her head a little to try and clear her mind, pressing through to ask, "So you teach? Or is it all research? Oh please tell me there's field research, and you have a fedora and a whip."

Robin laughs at that. "A little of everything actually. I'm going on a research trip this summer with some of my graduate students, but I'm afraid my area of study doesn't call for a bullwhip, and a machete would certainly go against my conservation ethics."

She smiles, and he slides over to occupy Regina's empty seat and tell her about his current research. When Belle comes to talk to Mary Margaret again he hardly pauses to say hello, and Emma is fascinated by how intense he gets about it. _Though, to dedicate a good portion of your life to the study of one thing you probably need to be passionate about it,_ she thinks. At one point he pulls a miniature moleskine notebook out of his breast pocket and shows her some of his notes and sketches. She admittedly has no idea what half of it means, but it's rather charming to watch him get so enthusiastic while treating her like a peer.

She doesn't see Belle, Mary Margaret and David leave the table rather abruptly, she's too absorbed in trying to understand the impromptu ecology lesson. However, when she asks Robin to clarify something, she doesn't hear his answer. Instead, she hears someone behind her distinctly say, "She's shameless, really. First the Nolans, then the scandal with the Golds, now this? With his wife here, even, at her table."

Her blood runs cold. Something must show on her face, because Robin immediately looks concerned. "Emma? What is it?"

She looks at him without really seeing him. It's as if her mind and body have detached, and she can't quite put them back together to function as one. She was prepared for all sorts of barbs and idle gossip about Neal, but this is yards - _miles_ \- ahead of that, going straight for the jugular, insinuating that she's a gold digger.

A memory she's long suppressed threatens to overtake her. _Isn't this enough? Can't it be enough?_

She's not stupid. She's a foster kid, she spent time in group homes. She's carried seventeen kinds of stigmas on her shoulders her entire life - a thief, worthless, an easy lay, hard to love, always sniffing around for money. People have said things about her and David for years, and both of them, or their friends or family, have been quick to set them straight. He's her brother, he's _family_, but people are idiots and can't look past a man and a woman - or a boy and a girl - who aren't blood-related being anything but romantically linked.

But this is different. They're implying she'd never had any feelings about Neal - only his dad's money. And now she's moving in on _Regina's_ husband? _Regina_. Did none of them _know_ her, or how dead Emma would already be if that were _remotely_ true?

_You're not enough, you're never enough._

She can't remember if he'd said that or if it's just become so ingrained in her psyche over the years that it can sound like anyone's voice. There's a gentle hand under her arm, pulling her to her feet. "Come on, Emma."

-/-

"Mr. Jones."

Killian turns from the glittering sight of those who had never had a lesson attempting to perform a waltz. It's the most amusing thing he's seen all evening, but Regina prefers his full and prompt attention. "Mrs. Hood. As promised, done up to pay my respects to the village squire."

The corner of her mouth curves up a little, and he mentally tallies himself a point - he takes what he can get with her. "Not bad," she admits, giving him a once-over.

He nods and gestures with his glass to the phone in her hand. "Checking on the lads?"

"Yes, Henry's watching Roland, and the Nolans' son as well. I wanted to be sure we still have a house to come home to," she says. She tucks the phone into her clutch, and watches the spectacle on the dance floor with folded arms. "He's suffering through a night of Mario Kart and five-year old boys who don't quite know how to work a controller."

Killian chuckles. "Oh, he'll rally," he says, raising his glass to his lips.

"Indeed." Regina pauses for a moment, and then glances back at him. "So, has it been tolerable, or are you actually shotgunning liquor like Dr. Lucas says?"

He raises his clear glass in cheers. "I have behaved myself, and I switched to club soda over the meal, thanks. Personally, I don't understand how you clubhouse types stand one another."

She smirks. "Mostly by taking each other's money and pretending it's not personal."

"Fair enough."

Two women walk past them; he can't make out what they're discussing, but Regina must have, from the way she tenses. Before he can ask, Mary Margaret hurries up to them. "Oh, I found you," she says, a bit breathlessly. "Regina, damage control."

"I just heard," Regina responds. Her normally cool voice is icy. "Where's Gold?"

She glances at Killian, who gives a half-shrug. "Last I saw, he was back by the bay doors with Malcolm and their crowd."

"You think it's him?" Mary Margaret asks. "Belle wasn't sure."

Regina's eyes are narrowed almost to slits, and suddenly Killian feels very earnest about remaining on her good side. He also has a vague urge to find a priest and confess his every sin. "Of course she claims she isn't. Now me, I say it's him, or I'm not the reason his son's rotting in prison," Regina says.

Mary Margaret's expression is pained as she nods. "Right. Okay. First thing, we need to move Emma away from the crowd -"

Regina rounds on Killian. He remains still, unsure if she's the type to attack based on movement or smell. "Jones. You don't have a particular urge to stay in the thick of things, do you?" She doesn't wait for him to answer. "Of course you don't, you didn't even want to come. Stay right here, and I'll be back in a minute."

She storms away in a furious clatter of heels, and he's left wondering what exactly just happened. "Mrs. Nolan, might I inquire as to what the devil all of this is about?" he asks her.

"You can call me Mary Margaret, Killian, it's fine," she says. She's tense, green eyes sharply watching those around her. "It's… You know how you came to buy the Horn. Graham Humbert was murdered in the barn."

He nods. Even if he hadn't come to take over the Horn, he would have to be fairly ignorant to not know it. The story dominated the headlines for weeks the previous fall: Humbert had been found in the barn with a broken neck. The stable hands who found him thought he'd slipped and fallen from the hayloft in the night, but too many questions led to a deeper investigation - this was spurned by immense pressure from the three main owners at the stable: Gold, Malcolm, and Regina. The only owner who hadn't insisted was Gold's somewhat estranged son, Neal. The reasons why became apparent as evidence came up, and pressure from Gold, Sr. eased. When the man arrested for the actual murder named Gold's only son as his controller?

Well, the phrase 'all hell broke loose' might be an understatement. And this was before the equine drugging accusations and proof, surfaced. By then, it was all the elder Gold could do to try and wash his hands of the ordeal. Killian came into the picture in October, when the investigation was wrapping up and the trial going underway.

Mary Margaret shifts uncomfortably. "Neal - he and Emma were involved. Several years ago. Some people here, apparently, find this amusing to gossip about. Particularly when Neal has just been found guilty and imprisoned, and now Emma comes back to town. It seems that some… individuals here find that a little too interesting."

Killian privately applauds her ability to recant this with restraint. There's an angry heat burning in his chest and he hardly knows the woman. "Some individuals find themselves to have puffs of dandelion fluff where some might find brains," he mutters.

Regina returns as Mary Margaret laughs a little bitterly, with a dazed-looking Emma in tow. "Now they've brought my husband into it," Regina all but snarls. Killian has an educated guess as to what may have been said. "I'll make history if I have to, Gold can share a cell with his son for defamation of character and reputation."

"Regina," Emma mutters, her gaze downcast. "It's fine."

"No, Emma," Mary Margaret says, laying a soothing hand on Emma's arm. "It isn't."

Regina doesn't have time for kindness and all but throws Emma at him. "Jones, get her out of here."

He doesn't have time to ask anything further as Regina and Mary Margaret turn almost in unison and head back into the crowd. He glances at Emma. "Do you have a coat or anything?"

She mutely lifts up a shimmery black shawl. She looks shell-shocked and something in him shifts - a tenderness he rarely feels for any creature with two legs instead of four. "Here, lass, let's just go," Killian says softly and puts his arm around her shoulders, guiding her out into the open air.

Outside, he takes the shawl from her. It's still fairly warm out, but he can't help but notice two things: she's shivering, and there's almost no back to her dress. He can imagine what his brother might say - _Now's not the time, little brother_. Killian smiles ruefully and drapes the shawl around her shoulders. The gesture - however mild - seems to bring some life back into her. "Thanks," she mumbles, gripping at the edges and drawing it closer around her.

His truck isn't far. Emma takes up the vow of silence once more during the walk across the parking lot. "Where to, love?" Killian asks, helping her into the passenger side. "My meter's broken, so take advantage of a free ride while you can." He grins, trying to provoke a response from her, but she only smiles wanly, her eyes far away. Killian's brow furrows, and he worries his lip with the tip of his tongue for a moment before closing the door and jogging to the driver's side.

She's quiet as he starts the truck and heads out of the track. Glancing over, he sees her hands quivering in her lap; he reaches over and flips on the heat. She doesn't say anything, and it's starting to bother him - if their previous encounters were anything to go by, she should have made at least three barbs against him by now.

He can only stand another minute of the strained silence before his gift of gab kicks in. "I should be thanking you, Miss Swan, for giving me an excuse to get out of there. I hadn't wanted to go in the first place, but you know Mrs. Hood. Damn woman has a way of making a man do exactly what he doesn't want to. And then I'm stuffed in this monkey suit with a stuffy lot, in a stuffy room, and the only good thing about it is the free alcohol. Seems to me, love, it might have done some good to imbibe a little."

Silence. He glances over quickly; her expression is harder now, a fierce glint in her eye. Irritation is better than numbness. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a smirk as his eyes go back to the road. "Though, nothing's really stopping us from crashing the pub. We'll be the talk of the town, you and I, dressed for his lordship and drinking cheap beers. Company will be better too, no doubt."

There's movement in the corner of his eye on his right, and Emma is no longer shaking but rather twisting the hem of her shawl as if its offended her. Killian's not sure if it's him or the affair at the track that has her destroying her pretty things, but he's not one to care much for his safety anyway. "What say you, Swan - let's have a drink and see where the night takes us."

"Turn the car around." Her voice is hard, flat, and could cut a man where he stood.

"Now, Swan, is the thought of spending an evening with me that detestable?"

"Turn. The fucking. Car. Around."

Killian drops the pretense with a relieved sigh. He wants her showing some emotion, not completely out to destroy his ego. "Lass, we're almost at the Point. I'm dropping you home and we'll be done with it."

He glances over at her again. Her eyes are steel, her posture rigid. "The Point isn't where I want to be. Last warning. Turn the fucking car around Jones, before I shove you out of the way and do it myself."

Killian shrugs, and slows enough to make the U-turn in the middle of the country road. She sucks in a breath, bracing herself against the force, and breathes out shakily as they make their way back. "Where to then?" he asks conversationally.

"I have a few choice words to say to Gold."

He raises an eyebrow but holds his tongue. He'd actually put good money down on that kind of encounter, but he knows no bookies are in attendance back at the track. This is turning out to be more of an interesting evening than he'd thought.

-/-

If there was a time she'd been more furious, the murder that must have come from it was done in some state of blackout rage because she definitely can't remember it. The fucking balls he has to have to try this. He's a grown-ass man, a respected businessman, and he's resorting to petty, _stupid _gossip. And for _what_?

That's the part that makes her even more angry. There's no _point _to this. She left _before_ all of this nonsense got out of control, _before_ Neal got it into his head that drugging the competition was the way to win. She cut her ties and ran to _stop_ this kind of idiocy from happening, not from starting the second she got back.

And having a living, flirting Blarney Stone next to her for the past fifteen minutes really only fanned her fires higher.

So of course she makes him turn the truck around. The entire drive back she sees the wariness in the way he hitches his right shoulder higher, the quick glances when Killian thinks she isn't looking. But it's not Killian's blood she's after tonight.

The truck isn't even stopped when she throws the door open and storms up the parking lot. "Swan!"

She hears the engine cut - did he seriously just park it there in the middle of the lane? - and doors slamming shut, and then shoes slapping the pavement as he tries to catch up with her. "Hold up, you can't just -"

There's a crowd of people at the top of the stairs she's marching up, Killian realizing (finally) that talking her out of it is useless and falling a step behind on her left like he's her second in a duel or something. Gold's voice raises above the rest as she surmounts the stairs. "I refuse to stand here and be accused of such nonsense!" he says loudly.

He breaks free of the crowd, only to be met with Emma's furious glare. "Then maybe stand over here while I read you the riot act," she snaps.

"Miss Swan," Gold says tiredly. "I regret that my peers have found you to be the most interesting subject of discussion this evening, but rest assured that I -"

" - had everything to do with it," she cuts him off. "Yeah, I was already assured of that. Because who else knows about the conversation - no, you weren't that polite that night, or tonight for that matter, so I'm just going to cut the bullshit. The _blistering accusations_ you threw at me and at your son when Neal said he wanted to marry me, about how I only wanted your money? Because I was a nobody with no family, living off charity, wanting to fuck my way into money? That I could never be _good enough_ for your precious son?" She hates the way her voice breaks in the middle of her speech, with the way everyone was staring, but this was going to stop tonight. She would be damned if any of his stupid gossip got out into the world without her putting up a fight about it. "Because I'm pretty sure that there were only three of us in the room for that humiliating experience. I was ready to handle a lot of bullshit about your son tonight, Gold, but this took the goddamn cake."

Gold's jaw clenches as the murmurs begin behind him. She can see Mary Margaret and David pushing their way towards her in the crowd. Emma takes a shaky breath, forcing away the evil voice in her mind whispering '_not enough, never enough_'. "I'm sorry Neal's in jail. But I didn't put him there. Don't take this out on me."

"Of course you put him there." It would have been better if he yelled; Emma feels unclean from the way he hisses his words at her, the way he leans closer every few words, as if being nearer to her will stick the barbs deeper, make it all hurt worse. "He was consumed by the thought of getting you back, by any way possible. You left him, you put him on this path. You are the _entire _reason my son is sitting up in Warren with no chance of bail!"

Emma's reaction is swift, and the punch connecting with his jaw sends the man sprawling on the ground. She feels cold again, the shaking starting in her chest and working its way down her arms. Her knuckles throb from the impact, but it's a good throb, a satisfying one. She looks down at Gold for one more moment, before she turns to Killian. "_Now_ you can take me home," she tells him coolly, and she lifts her skirt slightly so she doesn't ruin the moment by tripping down the stairs.


	6. April 20

**Chapter warnings: drinking game and mild self-harm caused by anxiety.**

* * *

Killian throws the truck into park. The moonlight throws Shepherd's Point into pale relief, long shadows stretching from the barns and the trees; the silvery light mingles with the greenish glow coming from the dashboard in the cab. Emma takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, absently rubbing her thumb over her knuckles. "How's the hand, love?" he asks.

She shrugs, holding it up for him. It's hard to see anything distinctive in the scant light: her skin looks mottled green. "It'll be bruised, but kinda worth it, you know?"

Then she smiles and he finds himself smiling in return. "I probably shouldn't say so, seeing as how he's my employer," Killian says, looking away, "but if ever I've met anyone who deserves a sucker punch, it's him."

Emma laughs and Killian detects some bitterness there, but doesn't push it. From the revelation earlier, she has every right to be bitter about Gold. The old man couldn't bear to have his only son marry a poor girl he thought was only after money, and so he'd forced them apart. She'd run off to save her own feelings - likely this is what Henry had meant when saying Emma had left, which meant he'd grossly misjudged their time apart - and it had driven the younger Gold down a dark path. She was quite right in saying it wasn't her fault Neal had gone and had someone murdered - she was well out of the picture - but her reappearance after so long made sense: she probably felt guilty. She probably wanted to make things right.

Now, she fiddles with her shawl, and reaches for the door. "Well… thanks. For the ride. And the getaway car."

"My pleasure," Killian tells her. As she pulls the lever, he says, "Oh, and make sure you ice that. If you think there's bruising. It'll help with swelling, and we can't have you needing me to carry ladders for you tomorrow."

"Good_night_, Mr. Jones," she says, looking at him with a wry smile.

He grins. "Goodnight, Miss Swan."

Emma opens the door and steps out. The full moon's light silver-gilts her hair and skin - she's made for moonlight and darkness, like Artemis on the hunt. Killian scoffs at himself again for being an eejit poet, and the sound makes her hesitate at closing the door. She looks at him, her eyes wide and dark in her face. "Um. About that drink," she starts.

He lifts an eyebrow curiously. "At the pub?"

"Well… I was thinking a little closer to home," she answers, and her shoulders relax slightly. "I was thinking about having one. Or more. Kind of need it after… that." She waves her hand, scowling. "But I have this rule where I don't drink alone anymore, and I'm kinda sure David and Mary Margaret won't be home for a while."

He raises his other eyebrow as well. "Are you inviting me in, Swan?"

Emma lets out an exasperated sigh, her shoulders dropping. "Not like _that._"

Killian chuckles, and turns the ignition off. "Well, far be it from me to leave a damsel in distress."

"Just drinks, Jones," she says with warning as he gets out of his side and they slam the doors shut. He follows her up the path to the porch, watching in amusement as she dismantles an artificial mushroom for a spare key. She glances back at him wryly. "David still has my keys. Try not to rob us, alright?"

"Thief's honor, I won't," he tells her, holding the storm door for her as she unlocks the main one. "Besides, I know where the money really is around here."

She snorts as she leads him in. "Yeah, and you'd have a real interesting time trying to get away with a couple of Thoroughbreds."

There's a clatter, and she shrinks a few inches - her shoes have been discarded. As she hikes her skirts up higher, he can't help the question that comes out, "How the bloody hell is that dress staying on, love?"

Emma twists and looks at him in surprise for a moment before starting to laugh. "A lot of hope and double-sided tape."

-/-

She has no idea why she's doing this. She barely knows him. Oh, she knows the rumors - supposedly he's been with more than one of his employers' wives, perhaps the reason why his stay at some farms have been shorter than others - but after her own experiences tonight she's less inclined to believe the gossip rags than she might have been yesterday.

But she was telling the truth when she says she has a rule against drinking alone. After she left Neal and went to New York, she'd gone on kind of a bender. Okay, it was a full-on bender. Only by sheer stupid luck was she still alive and relatively unhurt - and that the only residual effects were her aversion of vodka and the forget-me-not tattoo on her left wrist.

And maybe she's just using that rule as an excuse to get to know him better, but she won't tell him that.

Emma's glad for the darkness in the house still when he asks about her dress. Her face feels warm, and she decides to change into something more comfortable before getting down to business. Killian declines the offer of something of David's to change into, so she shrugs and disappears into the attic for a few minutes to change into an old Boston University t-shirt and a pair of jeans she probably should have thrown out after the fourth rip.

She enters the kitchen to see that he's flicked on the lights, shed his jacket, tie, and waistcoat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. His shirt's been unbuttoned a few times as well, revealing a silver Celtic cross shining brightly against the patch of dark hair on his chest. Emma blinks a few times and clears her throat. "Can't find the good stuff?" she asks brightly.

She can feel his eyes on her as she moves around the kitchen, collecting glasses and the key to the liquor cabinet. He chuckles. "Figures Mr. Nolan would have one of those with the lad running around."

Emma bursts out laughing at 'Mr. Nolan'. "Oh _please_ tell me you call him that to his face."

He looks at her quizzically. "I do, yes."

She can't help but giggle while she collects a bottle of tequila from the cabinet and then a box of lemon wedges from the fridge. The idea of anyone seriously calling David 'Mr. Nolan' could possibly be the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard, but she'd hold out for the more ridiculous thing. Killian raises an eyebrow at her selection when she sets her findings on the table. "You do know I have to drive tonight. Morning workouts come awfully early."

Emma shrugs. "More for me then. Grab some of this and follow me."

She leads him out the back door and down the sloping lawn to Leo's swing set. The swing gives a little under her as she sits, and then the whole thing droops again when his weight comes down on its twin next to her. "Roomy," he chirps, wiggling a little in the child-sized swing, and she snorts again.

He holds out the glasses at her indication, and she pours them each a healthy cupful of tequila. The box of lemons sits on the ground between them. "Okay," Emma says, looping an arm around the chain. "Q and A time. Trade off questions. If you pass on a question, you have to take a drink."

Killian's groan turns into a chuckle as he reaches down and takes a lemon wedge. "Love, you're definitely trying to kill me here."

"Please. Like you haven't been dying to pick at me a little more," she says.

He raises his eyebrows at that, his eyes glinting in the moonlight, but Emma merely shrugs. She's noticed the way he looks at her, and she's definitely aware of the way she looks at him. He gets under her skin, and she jabs back at him. And she's seen him at work. She's watched him in the paddock and at the Horn when she's picking up or dropping off Henry. He's quiet and patient - with the horses _and_ Henry. They're going to be working together - in a broad sense, anyway. He'd helped her out tonight, however unwillingly at first. She's not going to deny any of what she's feeling - call it interest or attraction or just plain curiosity - for her pride, or what's left of it after tonight. "So, why'd you buy the Horn?" Emma asks.

Killian chuckles darkly. "Pass. Bad luck, love," he tells her, and he takes a drink, sticking the lemon wedge in his mouth after. She smirks; she hadn't expected an answer, but it was worth a shot. He drops the pulp in the wood chippings. "How old were you when you left Storybrooke?"

"Twenty-three," she says, and tilts her glass around, watching the moon's reflection glide along the surface. "Are you planning on staying very long here?"

"Pass. Try asking something a little easier, darling, like my favorite color," he answers, and takes another drag from his glass. "The shirt's a bit large on you, is it yours?"

She glares at him for passing again - though it's still an informative answer. She wonders how well _that's_ going to go over. "No, it's David's. I didn't go to college. How long have you been working with horses?"

Killian raises an eyebrow at her comment about college. "Forever, feels like. Da was a gambler, hung around the track and I fell in love with the beasts, to be an eejit about it. Started young, doing whatever I could. Why didn't you go to college?"

"Pass," she tells him, and she takes a drink. The tequila burns, and she soothes it with a lemon. That's not a fight she wants to relive with _herself_, let alone him. But if he wants to get personal, she'd pick up that gauntlet. "How old were you when you had your first kiss?"

She glances over, her expression purely innocent as he looks at her sharply. Emma can see his lips twitching as he fights the urge to smile or smirk or something. "Don't laugh," he cautions her. "I was seventeen and I'd lost a bet with one of me mates." She probably wouldn't have laughed if he hadn't warned her, but there's a bubble of laughter threatening to burst out now. He must see the struggle she's having to remain composed because he scoffs, reaching over and shoving her. "Alright then, what about you?"

She swings like a pendulum, and clears her throat - and if it sounds like amusement, he's hearing things. "Fourteen," she admits. "It was a dare." She hesitates for a moment as another question pops into her head. It's a relatively normal question, but if Killian continues his trend she's not sure if she'll pass or not. "You said your dad's a gambler - can't gamble money you don't have."

Emma senses there's a story to the chuckle as he answers, "Oh, where there's a will, there's a way."

"Fair enough. So other than gamble, what do your parents do?"

He looks down at the glass in his hands. Emma tilts her head at him when the silence lingers for a bit too long. Finally, he lifts his glass at her in a toast, a sardonic grin on his face. "Whatever dead people do, love. Yours?"

Guilt bites her, but it was a fair question. She didn't know, and now she did. And his honesty could only be rewarded with hers. She taps her glass against his, her smile just as grim. "Whatever people who abandon their kids do."

Their eyes lock. She can't tell if there's pity there, but then she's not sure if there's any in her expression either. They nod, and they each take a drink. "There's a certain solidarity between those who have been left behind, a bond that can't be broken," he tells her as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. He reaches up and scratches behind his ear. "Sorry you had to be bonded to me, Swan."

"I can think of worse people," she says quietly.

He shifts, pushing back in the swing and bracing himself up. She twists a little from side to side; she wishes it were warmer. She misses the sound of crickets - and they'd help fill the gap in conversation. It wasn't awkward - how could it be, when it was the truth? - but a little bit of noise might help ease them back down from the slight tension in the air. He lets gravity slide him back to rest. Emma breathes a laugh at the sight of his nice shoes buried in the wood chips. "What's your favorite color?" she asks finally.

"Sea green. What's your favorite song?"

Interesting break in the pattern. "This week, or of all time?"

"That's not fair, Swan, answering a question with a question."

Emma grins. "I like old soul music, like, from the sixties, but every now and then something catches me from now. Where are you from?"

"A village no one's heard of in County Louth. Near the border," he answers, but he takes a drink anyway. Emma raises an eyebrow at that. "What do you think will happen when Gold complains to the commission about your little boxing match?" Killian asks.

Oh this she definitely doesn't want to think about. She can think of all sorts of suspensions in place, possibly being fired. Being banned from the stables is a likely candidate. The prospect of being forced to apologize is almost unbearable - she hates apologizing for nothing. "Pass," she answers instead, taking another long drink. "What's the border?"

"Northern Ireland?" he answers. She lifts one shoulder in a shrug - geography was never her best subject. He snorts and looks away. "What's a nice girl like you doing with a tattoo?"

Emma smiles wryly and lifts her glass to her lips. "Pass."

"Oh, now she's getting all mysterious," Killian teases. "You do realize, darling, the more layers you hide behind, the more determined I am to uncover the real you underneath."

"Too bad." Nevermind he has her blushing again, but it's not even an interesting story - how do you explain you woke up after a four-day bender with an intricately designed flower on your wrist with no memory of how it got there? She puts a lemon wedge between her teeth, sucks, and tosses the husk on the ground. "How'd you get that scar on your cheek?"

From the way he stills, she senses she's crossed a line. He doesn't even say anything, just drains his glass and doesn't bother with a lemon. The familiar itch of anxiety starts to crawl up her skin again and she scratches at her tattoo. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"No matter, Swan." Killian says, his voice rough from the liquor.

He doesn't ask anything else though. Emma scratches harder at her wrist, switching when it starts to hurt. Finally she just drains her own glass and fills it up again. Killian's hand catches her wrist. His hands are rough but cool from the night air and the contact is soothing against the burning pain on her wrists. "Don't," he murmurs, brushing his thumb against her pain. "Ask another if you like."

Emma glances over at him, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. "Ever been married?"

He chuckles ruefully and looks away. "No. Came close once. You?"

She scoffs. "Came close once," she echoes quietly. "You clearly saw how that worked out." Emma takes a long drink, and worries another lemon wedge against her lip.

It's her turn to dig in and stretch her legs on the swing, letting it sway her back to rest. She's tempted to just down the whole glass and refill it again, but she knows better - it's time to stop. She just doesn't want to think about Neal today. Or ever again, preferably, but today is also fine. She doesn't want to relive the last few months of their relationship, as he'd pulled away from her and gotten absorbed in his work, grown distracted even when they were together, making her feel like she just couldn't be _enough _for him.

She'd been sure it was pressure from his father to pull away, to force them apart, but Gold's words earlier had her questioning it again. He'd said Neal worked hard to try and get her back, said it like he'd thought she was more than enough. But how? By winning as many stakes as he could, starting his own fortune?

She'd never wanted that. She'd only wanted him. And if he'd thought she'd approve of him _drugging the competition_ in order to win those stakes…

Fuck.

Emma drops her glass on the ground. The tequila spills into the wood as she stands up, pulling away from Killian's light grip and rubbing her arms furiously, trying to clear her mind of her ex. _It's over, it's done, Gold's a liar, Neal's locked up and I never have to be around him again_, she tells herself. _I don't ever have to try to be enough for him again._

"Swan?"

She turns. Killian's watching her with concern. "Sorry," she says, hugging herself tighter. "Just… weird. Feeling weird."

"Understandable," he says and she feels like he _gets_ it more than he's letting on. The thought is a comfort, one that makes her loosen her hold on herself. "Should I go?"

"I…" Emma hesitates, but then light sweeps the grounds and it's her Bug coming up the drive. She wonders how late it is, if David and Mary Margaret took their time picking up Leo from Regina's to give Emma some space to calm down.

Killian bends and picks up some of their loot, Emma grabs the rest and they head back up to the house. She locks up the tequila and sticks the glasses in the dishwasher as her brother comes in carrying Leo - fast asleep - and Mary Margaret waves. Killian picks up his discarded clothing as her family goes upstairs. "Thank you," Emma says quietly.

The ceiling creaks as her family moves around upstairs. Killian smiles and it makes her heart lighter. "I've done nothing worth thanking, Swan."

A smile softens him, she realizes. That's why she feels better looking at him. Or maybe that's the liquor at work in her brain, and she suddenly worries about him driving back. "Where's your phone?" she asks.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an ancient-looking flip phone. Emma almost laughs at it as she takes it, and then at herself as she struggles to enter her phone number. "Text me when you get back to the Horn," she tells him. "I can't afford to be up all night worrying."

Killian's eyebrow twitches upward, almost like he's understood something. "Aye, I'll do that. And like I said, love, it's far from me to leave a damsel in distress," he tells her.

He takes his phone from her but keeps hold of her hand in his fingers. His calloused thumb brushes gently over her knuckles, already turning purple. Emma holds her breath. "Remember to ice this," he tells her softly as his fingers slide down to linger on her wrists. "I'm a busy man, no time for ladders."

Emma breaks, breathing freely again as he lets her go. "Right."

"Goodnight, Miss Swan."

He's at the door when she says, "It's… Call me Emma. Please."

Killian looks back at her, and she feels heat rising in her face. _I've had too much tequila_, she tells herself, shifting a little. She looks down as she wipes her hands on her jeans. When she meets his gaze again, she _definitely_ doesn't notice the crows feet around his eyes as he grins. "Goodnight, _Emma_," he says.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, she's staring at the moon from her bed and her phone buzzes. She notes the unfamiliar number on the screen with the message that reads, _landed safe, Swan. Rest easy._

Emma adds his number to her contacts, replies with an affirmative, and slips under the covers. She readjusts the ice pack she has taped to her hand, and tries desperately not to think about how much trouble she's going to be in come morning. "Worry about it when you wake up," she mutters to herself, and she buries her face in her pillow.


	7. April 21

Five seconds stand between Emma and the complete destruction of the archiving equipment when Elsa walks into the control room. "Emma, what the hell happened last night?"

"Stupid, goddamn motherf - what?" Emma asks distractedly. She feels like her head is going to explode and it's not even eleven o'clock, which really bodes well for how the rest of the day is going to go. It's not even that she's that hungover - she _was_ a bit grumpier than usual this morning but the coffee helped - it's that there are _computers_ that _don't do what they're supposed to_. "Why are you here so early?"

"Anna forgot her lunch," Elsa informs her as she slips into her seat and rolls over to where Emma is trying to unsuccessfully work on backups. "The commissioners want you down in the office. A few of them are about to hit the roof, something about one of the owners? And then I saw Regina Hood on my way out, and I've never seen her so angry."

Emma sighs heavily, combing her fingers through her hair. Just because she expected this happening doesn't mean she wants to face the reality of it. "Jesus."

"Might not be a bad idea to start praying if Regina's down there," Elsa says, taking over the archiving. "I wouldn't want to be in your shoes."

Emma smiles crookedly, getting up. Regina has that effect on people. "No, she's on my side. I think."

Elsa arches an eyebrow in interest. "Details later?"

"If I'm still alive. You got this?"

Elsa breathes a laugh and nods. Emma heads down to the racing commission offices, bracing herself for a fight. It's probably not the best idea to amp herself up, but she'd rather go down swinging - hell, she'd rather throw the first punch if she could - than sit on the sidelines and wait for judgement. She runs down the list of everything that had happened at the banquet last night, forming a defense for every possible accusation they could throw at her. She's practically vibrating with anticipation and anger when she throws open the doors to the office and storms past David into the boardroom, where Regina is already seated like a queen.

It doesn't go quite as badly as expected - Emma's not sure if Regina smoothed things over before she got there or not - but Emma still has to replay the night several times for the chairman, several commissioners, and the board of stewards. With every replay she gets more and more irritated with the whole situation. Regina stays to back her, but David isn't allowed in the room - they can hear him arguing with a judge in the hallway. At one point, there are so many people in the room that Emma demands to know if the jocks and valets should come in and weigh their opinions as well. Regina lays a hand on Emma's arm to quiet any further outbursts.

Finally, Albert Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose. "Miss Swan," Spencer begins, "while we agree that the actions taken against you by Mr. Gold were unjust, we can't in good conscience allow your response to go unanswered -"

"What was she supposed to do, walk away and let her reputation be tarnished?" Regina interrupts. "If Emma were a man, or lined your pockets like Gold does, we wouldn't be having this discussion. She'd get a slap on the wrist and be on her way. Then again, if Emma were a man, we wouldn't be in this situation in the first place."

The noise in the hall gets louder; it sounds like someone else has begun arguing with David as well. The chairman turns purple. "Mrs. Hood, your implications and tone border on insubordination -"

Regina tossed her hair over her shoulder. "My tone is the same I use in the courtroom every day - where I should be, instead of wasting my time here with this nonsense that Gold brought upon himself. And don't think we can't bring you in for workplace discrimination, Mr. Spencer." The look of cold fury she's giving Albert could freeze anyone in their tracks. "As for my implications… I have ears, Chairman," she says, shrugging.

Emma wants to be Regina when she grows up. Spencer fumes for several long moments. Emma glances between him and Regina, waiting for the contest of wills to break. The shouting in the hallway peaks, and then the door flies open. "Chairman Spencer, if you're punishing Miss Swan then you'll have to punish me as well. I was responsible for her at the time," an Irish brogue declares.

_Oh, God_… This is not helping. Emma rubs the point between her eyebrows in frustration. "Mr. Jones, I do not need anyone white-knighting for me -"

Spencer slaps his hand on the table, causing Emma and Regina to jump in their seats. His jaw is set in a grim line. "I'm fining all of you two hundred dollars apiece for wasting my time with this idiocy. _Yes_, Gold as well, Mrs. Hood, you can check the commission records yourself when the check clears. And _don't_ think you're out of this either, Jones, you brought this onto yourself the moment you set foot in this room. Now _all _of you get the hell out of my sight before I suspend every one of you from the grounds."

"Yessir," Emma mutters, and she gets up.

Emma doesn't have two hundred dollars to spare, but she also doesn't have time to sit around arguing details when there's work to be done. A fine is better than most of the alternatives; she'll suck it up. Her hands flex and clench as she moves swiftly out of the boardroom, her breathing tight as she attempts to calm down. Regina is hot on her heels. "Emma, don't worry about the money -" she starts.

Irritation sparks through Emma's veins. _Oh this has to stop right now._ "It's fine," she cuts her off, waving her hand. "I'll make it work."

David, loitering in the hall waiting for them, tries to intercept her as she passes. "Emma, what happened in -"

Emma sidesteps his arm; any attempts at calming her anger are quickly flying out the window. She really doesn't feel like being all touchy-feely about the whole thing. "Don't worry about it, David, just go make sure King is ready," she snaps.

"_Emma_ -" Killian calls from behind them.

She ignores the trail of people she's picked up like ducklings until they're well outside the commission offices. She doesn't need another fine for starting a brawl on government property - not that she _intends_ on starting a brawl, but shit happens. When there's enough distance behind them, she whirls around and jabs David in the chest with a finger. "David, I love you, but now is _not_ the time. You have other things to do, go do them." He looks shocked, but she doesn't have time for his hurt feelings. She turns her head to glare at Regina. "It sucks, but I'll make it work with the money. Thank you, but I've _got _this, Regina."

Regina inclines her head slightly, her expression guarded. Killian stands just behind David, watching her carefully. It's his subdued manner that sets her off. "And _you_, what the hell were you even _thinking_ barging in like that?" she demands.

His face darkens. "I was _thinking_ I could _help_," Killian says heatedly.

"Yeah, and now we're out a collective eight hundred bucks, good job on that!" Emma snaps.

"I don't give a damn about the money, Swan -"

Emma crows her laughter. "Oh I'm so glad one of us doesn't care about money! This isn't about _money_, Jones, this is about me not needing anyone's help!"

"Hey!" Regina injects.

"_We_ were handling it fine," Emma continues, glancing at Regina, who looks satiated with the 'we', "and Regina had Spencer backed into a corner. He was going to let me off, and then _you_ came in and broke the whole goddamn thing to pieces!"

Killian looks really angry now, and Emma's hackles are up. She's more than ready to go toe-to-toe with someone, even if that someone had been kind to her the night before. He steps around David, stalking up to her. "Ara sure it's not about money, and the temper's back after an attempt to smother it with spirits, isn't it Swan?" Killian snaps. "Begging pardon, miss, for thinking the worst was afoot and you were getting sacked for naught! Pray spare a poor stable lad's ego for daring to step in the main house!"

Emma stands her ground. "The entire goddamn room heard you arguing with David and the judges! Did you not think maybe they were right to keep both of you out of it?! David's family, and you're basically a stranger - _and_ Gold practically owns you, how was that not going to go over well?!"

Killian says some things she doesn't understand - slurring all his vowels together with some sharp consonants making an occasional appearance - all the while gesticulating wildly, and though she doesn't know if she needs to call a priest for an exorcism, she _does_ know it sounds angry. "And _another_ thing," he says in English, "you're gone in the head if you think that git has any ownership over the likes of me!"

"Cut the fancy bullshit, Jones," Emma retorts, because how else is she supposed to react when she doesn't understand half of what he's saying, and then he steps too close. "You'll be lucky if this doesn't get out, or Gold'll have you killed too! It's bad enough he saw you with me last night!"

They're inches apart now, and she furiously tries to shove him away but he grabs her hands firmly - not hard, just enough to hold her in place. "It's kind of you to worry about me, Swan, but on the short list of men I fear, Gold is not one of them," he tells her. "If you haven't noticed, it's a free country. And if you don't stop struggling you're going to hurt yourself further."

He says something else she doesn't understand, his thumb brushing over her bruised knuckles. She grits her teeth when she realizes he's looking at her wrists. "I'm not one of your horses to be handled and sweet-talked out of a tantrum, Jones, _let me go_!"

She yanks her hands free and glares up at him - there's heat his eyes, and she feels like not all of it is temper. She's feeling flushed, though from her rage or their proximity she's not sure. They are _way_ too close, and despite the rising urge to uppercut him, she's also seized with the urge to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless. "Don't shove at me and I won't have to stop you," Killian murmurs fiercely. "Have we a deal?"

"Fine," she says tightly. She takes a step back, trying to break the intensity of the stare he's fixing her with. "I have work to do."

"Sure and I've foostered enough around here," he says.

Belatedly Emma realizes they still have an audience. She feels herself turning red when she notices the way David stands braced, arms crossed like he's deciding whether or not to intervene, or how Regina's eyebrow is raised in that way she gets when she's found something of interest. Without another word Emma turns on her heel and heads back inside.

-/-

Killian's still fuming at the end of the racing day. All afternoon he had snapped at exercise boys and grooms, spoken curtly with his jocks - all the while the image of Emma, standing braced against his temper and firing back with her own, burned in his mind. _She'd try the patience of a saint_, he thinks with a scowl as he prepares Battle and Mongrel for traveling back to the Horn.

He's only glad that their owner has chosen to make himself scarce for the day. As much as Emma's words had irked him earlier, and as much as he claimed to have no fear of the man, there was a reason that many in the racing circuit gave Gold a wide berth. The man's had more than a handful of people fired over the years, careers ruined with a word, business relations strained. Like as not, Killian will face some kind of penalty for his actions.

He stands with a sigh, leg wraps done. Battle butts her head against his shoulder in a demand for attention, shaking her chestnut mane. Killian softens slightly and pats her nose. "You're a feisty lady after me own heart, _a mhuirnín_," he tells her softly.

She whickers and noses his pockets. He laughs, and she rolls her eyes at him, headbutting his chest. "You know you get carsick, sweetheart, no carrots for you yet," he says, stroking her neck.

"She used to bite Graham, you know," someone says behind him.

He tenses at the male voice, but his brain registers the distinct lack of Scottish in the tone a moment later and he relaxes. Killian glances over to see David leaning against the stall entrance. "Mr. Nolan," he says, nodding in greeting.

"Jones," David says as he nods and gestures to Battle, who has decided Killian's an ideal scratching post by rubbing her head on his shirt. Killian scratches between her ears. "She's a menace, this one, used to terrorize the kids. Graham would call his bites 'Battle scars'. You've gentled her a lot."

Killian finger-combs Battle's forelock. There's a scar on his ring finger from his first month at the Horn. He'd never wanted to gentle her, just get her to understand the oval was a more productive use of her energy. She'd brought in quite a few purses since this understanding. "You just have to know how to talk to them. No disrespect to Mr. Humbert."

David's eyes are downcast for a moment, and then he clears his throat. "The same can be said of people."

Killian clenches his jaw. Of course. David watches over Emma in a similar vein to the way that Emma watches over Henry. The argument in the hall earlier had shown Killian how fiercely protective David was of her. Perhaps Gold wasn't the only one to watch out for. "If you've come to scold me about Miss Swan -"

"- then you don't know much about her at all," David interrupts. Killian raises an eyebrow at that, and David smiles ruefully. "She can pick her own fights, she doesn't need me - or anyone else - doing it for her."

Killian strokes Battle's nose absently. "Aye, everyone from here to Dublin gathered as much with how she shouted me down this morning."

David's lips curl up briefly, and he shifts to fold his arms across his chest. "She has her reasons for shouting, and if we're very good we might even get to hear them someday."

Killian grunted. As often as he lied to himself, some things weren't worth the trouble and this was one of them. Perhaps it had been foolish to bum-rush the judge and declare his solidarity, but all the saints and his mother's soul would have guilted him into a confession sooner rather than later if he hadn't. It was bad form to leave a person to the wolves when you had a hand in their deed - and driving the getaway car was more than having a hand in it.

David shifted again. "Just… She's no delicate flower, but just walk careful around her, alright?"

Killian nods. Her secretive smiles in the moonlight the night before had said as much. "Aye, she told me some last night. I picked up on some of the rest thanks to Gold. It sounds like it's quite the tale to hear."

David makes a disbelieving noise. "It's not my story to tell."

There's a moment of silence that threatens to stretch into an awkward pause. Thankfully, Battle thumps her head against Killian again and he takes that as a sign to get going. "All right, _a mhuirnín_, let's go. You and your sire will be the death of me."

He leads Battle out of the stall. David offers to lend a hand with Mongrel, who is waiting in an uncharacteristically patient manner next door, and Killian accepts. David notices the way Killian looks around a bit more than necessary as they walk to the trailer and chuckles. "I saw Gold leave already, if you were worried."

"Just trying to keep my bits attached for a time longer…"

"That short list is getting longer, is it?" David ribs him.

"Not if I can help it," Killian mutters, and he tugs on Battle's lead line to pick up the pace.

With thinning patience and a lot of Irish curses, they get the horses loaded. Killian climbs in the cab of the truck and David slaps the door to get his attention. Killian rolls the window down. "Remember what I said about my sister," David tells him.

Killian glances upwards, praying for strength. The picture he's painted of her becomes more layered and less clear with every passing day. Perhaps life would be easier to toss it away and start fresh. "Is this whole bloody town related to her in some way? You lot inbreed worse than the nobility."

One corner of David's mouth ticks up. "Still not my story to tell," he says. "Ask her, if she ever chooses to speak to you again."

"I'll endeavor to remember."

"She'll probably bite your head off for it though."

_Shite_. As much as he hates leaving without the upper hand, his ego has had enough bruising for one day. Killian cranks the ignition and throws the truck into first, not quite leaving fast enough to escape the sound of David's chuckling.

-/-

Leaving her professional calm face on all day and throughout dinner was exhausting. If David or Mary Margaret asked if she was feeling okay one more time, she would literally explode. Then Leo would _definitely_ need therapy, and the shitty life insurance policy she had probably wouldn't cover the costs of a funeral _and _lifelong therapy, and then the farm would go downhill as David and Mary Margaret struggled to support their traumatized child. And somewhere, out in the universe, what remained of Emma Swan would _know_ and feel awful about her brother losing his family's legacy all because his foster-sister couldn't get a hold on her anger issues.

Luckily, farm chores provide two necessary solutions. First, she's alone. Mary Margaret's rescues are cared for and maintained on volunteer power. Emma had happily volunteered to do all of the evening mucking and feeding for them herself. Second, cleaning up after and feeding ten large animals is strenuous work. As she finishes the third stall, Emma can already feel her arms quivering and the knots in her chest vanishing.

A small part of her says she's also doing this to repay her family for letting her crash with them, as well as an apology for causing problems the night before, and maybe to provide her with a chance to think about why she's so angry. The larger part, the part that's still ablaze with the injustice of it all, says it's a good distraction from thinking about her feelings - which it might be, if she wasn't so used to the work by now that she could probably do it in her sleep.

There's dirt on her face and arms, straw in her hair, and even the rough work gloves can't fully protect her hands from new blisters forming as she finishes the fifth stall. She pauses for a moment to wipe at her forehead with her arm. The bruises on her knuckles are throbbing in time with the blisters on her palms. "Definitely gone soft…" she mutters to herself.

"I'll say," Regina's voice echoes down the row.

Emma looks up sharply. "What are you doing here, Regina?"

Regina looks odd in a hoodie emblazoned with Bowdoin's polar bear mascot, old jeans, and work boots. Emma's seen her hundreds of times in working clothes, but it's never as normal as the lawyer getup. "Making sure Henry's still got a big sister who promised to go riding with him tomorrow," Regina tells her.

Emma rolls her eyes and lifts the handles of her wheelbarrow. "I'm fine," she says, heading into the next stall.

"Really? Because the little display from earlier today tells another story," Regina counters.

"Yeah, well, you'd be kind of pissed off too if someone called you a slut and a gold-digger, blamed you for turning their kid into a psychopath, and then went crying to their daddies when you socked 'em in the jaw," Emma grumbled.

Regina seemed content to stand by and watch as Emma got to work. She leans against the stall door, her hands tucked in the hoodie's pocket. "You're assuming I haven't been called those things and worse. And you know what they say about assuming."

"Got it, I'm an ass, thanks."

"Well at least you're open to the idea."

Emma grinds her teeth together in frustration, glaring up at her friend as she sifted the shavings. "I'm assuming you have another point besides pissing me off?"

Regina shrugs. "No, that's entirely why I'm here."

It's even more irritating when Emma's bullshit detector doesn't go off. "Any particular reason," she grunts, hefting the load into the wheelbarrow, "you're hellbent on pissing me off today?"

Another shrug. "It didn't seem like you'd had enough of a fight earlier - mostly because I don't think I've ever seen someone's switch flip from anger to arousal outside of a porno so quickly. I could call Jones over here right now if you two wanted to finish what you started."

"Get out, Regina."

"No, I don't think I will," she says, and Emma grips the fork tighter. "Tell me, how screwed would you have been if I hadn't gotten to Spencer first this morning? Out of a job and banned from the grounds I bet, and a higher fine on top of that. I really appreciated the knock earlier, by the way, knowing the efforts I put in were so underappreciated made going in to the office late so much easier on me."

"Shut up," Emma grinds out. "I fixed what I said."

"Ah, but the first thing was 'I', because it's always about you, isn't it Emma?"

Her hands ache from how hard she's gripping the shaving fork. "I fucked up, alright? I get mad, I do that. Clearly, as this morning's bullshit proves."

Regina tosses her head slightly; her hair is escaping from its ponytail and into her face. "Yes, and why did you get so mad? You brought that all on yourself. I had Jones get you out of there, and fifteen minutes later you're back and punching Gold in the face. You were supposed to leave. If you'd just listened -"

Emma throws the fork on the ground, the clatter of wood on concrete ringing through the stable. "All you gave me was a few minutes to get my head on straight and then do what needed to be done!"

"It wasn't necessary, Emma!"

"What, and letting everyone else decide how Gold should be punished is?! _I_ was the one under attack, _I_ get to decide how it's done!"

It enrages her further with how calm Regina is. "No, you don't, because then things like this happen. Then you get mad and flustered about money and thinking other people are running your life for you, when the reality is all we're trying to is help you."

Emma scoffs. "Right, because helping me is about coming down here and yelling at me after the fact."

"When you're being an ass? Absolutely," Regina snaps, her calm facade fracturing. "You're too busy feeling sorry for yourself for getting caught breaking the rules and getting called out on it. _Yes_, Gold was out of line, but we were handling it. So, much like your little tête-à-tête with Jones, I'm going to ask you this: what the _hell_ were you thinking?"

Emma furiously opens her mouth to respond, and then the weight of the question hits her. Her resolve snaps and she closes her mouth again. Her fists unclench and her shoulders relax a bit. "I…"

Regina sighs, and her head falls back for a moment. She's calm again when she looks at Emma again. "Emma, I'm not angry with you. In your shoes, I probably would have done the same. But I want you to just… stop and _think_ for a minute next time. Actions have consequences, and it's by the grace of me that your ass isn't in a cell adjacent to your ex's right now. Sometimes you need to just… let other people handle things. People who know what they're doing and aren't as emotionally involved as you are. And you need to _trust_ people, trust they'll do it right and the way you would want to. Even restorative justice has a mediator."

Emma feels like she's shrinking. She looks down at the floor. Regina's meaning is clear: Emma needs to learn to deal with her control issues - and her anger issues. It's not going to be an easy or short process, and she almost groans at the thought of it, but holds it in. More, she hates having to apologize. "You came in here and maneuvered a whole fight with me, just to make me realize I need to grow up and share my toys," she grumbles instead, bending over to grab her shaving fork.

She glances over at Regina, whose grin is malicious. "Not bad, eh?"

Emma shakes her head and gets back to work. Regina watches her for another minute before pushing off the stall entrance and walking down the row. Emma can hear her pacing and pausing at turns as she finishes the stall and moves on to the next one. She's on the ninth stall when Regina calls down the row, "Is Mary Margaret seriously keeping this horse's name?"

Emma pokes her head out the stall door. "Which one?"

Even thirty feet away she can see the long-suffering look on Regina's face, one eyebrow raised. "Uncle Tickles," she reads off the brass nameplate. The Sahara wasn't as dry as that delivery.

A startled laugh escapes her. "Oh, no. That must be one of the new ones," Emma says.

"I feel the urge to get a doll and ask the breeder to point to where someone hurt him," Regina comments.

Emma walks down the row. Mary Margaret has found some interesting strays over the year, but this might top the list if it's true - and right now she's not sure if Regina's just trying to lighten the mood or not. "You're serious, that's what it says."

"Plain as day."

She should have known Regina couldn't make up such a thing on the spot. And it's funnier up close. Even Regina breaks her serious facade, and soon Emma's sides hurt from laughing so much. "That is," she wheezes, "the _worst_ name I've come across in all my years in this business."

They miss the footsteps coming into the barn, and they only look up when Mary Margaret calls down to them, "What's so funny?"

Her bemused expression just makes Emma and Regina laugh harder. Emma's grasping the stall door for support, and every time she thinks she's calm and she tries to look her sister-in-law in the face, the giggles come back full force. Regina eventually points to the nameplate, and Mary Margaret's expression turns to full confusion. "What? What's so funny about Uncle Tickles?"

Well, that certainly doesn't help. It takes ages for them to calm down, enough that Mary Margaret gives up trying to talk to them and goes to muck out the last stall herself.

* * *

After Regina leaves, Emma picks bits of straw out of her hair and goes to shower. Her hands ache even in the warm water, and washing her hair is a nightmare for her arms. She leaves her hair in a towel after, hanging out with Leo in their pajamas and making a city with Legos for Godzilla to destroy. David and Mary Margaret are still down in the barns, so she puts her nephew to bed by herself. "Aunt Emma, Daddy has a story," Leo tells her, and points to the book on the night stand.

Emma picks it up. "_Peter Pan_, huh? What's your favorite part?"

"Flying to Never-everland," Leo says promptly. "I wish I could fly, Aunt Emma."

He rolls over, clutching his stuffed lion, and Emma smooths his hair. "Me too, kiddo."

"Daddy says you can fly on a horse. But I'm too little," he says, punctuating with an enormous sigh.

She stifles a giggle. "You can, and someday you will."

"Waiting is ha-ard."

"I know, kiddo. But it's like waiting for your birthday or Christmas. You just have to do it," Emma tells him, and then opens to the bookmark, where Peter flies back from his death in a bird's nest.

It's ironic that she's doling out advice about patience when a few short hours ago she was being lectured on the same subject. She ponders over that as Leo falls asleep just before Wendy decides it's time to go back to England. She sets the book on the table and kisses Leo's forehead gently, turning down the light.

David, covered in grime and heading for his own shower, nods to her as she leaves Leo's room, and she points upstairs, mouthing a _goodnight_ before heading up to her room.

Her phone is charged, with no new messages waiting. She sighs as she slips under the covers. It's expected, but somehow disappointing as well? She shouldn't be disappointed, not after the way she'd acted all day. Still... her thumb hovers over the messages box. She hates apologizing, but she hates it more over a text message. She remembers Regina's little speech from earlier and Emma sighs gustily.

'_I don't remember how I got the tattoo, or what it means, or why I thought it was a good idea. I woke up one day and my wrist hurt like a bitch._' she taps out, and she hits send.

She sets her phone aside and grabs the book she's been trying to read for the last eighteen months. He probably keeps farm hours, and if she'll hear from him at all it won't be until morning. But she's barely made it a page before her phone vibrates. '_There's a story there, Swan._'

She snorts. '_Yeah. It's a real fucking downer._'

Another few minutes pass. Then, '_Perhaps you'll share it with me someday._'

Emma's mouth threatens to curl into a smile. '_Maybe someday, Jones._'


	8. April 22-26

**This chapter contains serious discussion about eating disorders and unhealthy weight management. Please tread carefully.**

* * *

A little bit of rain isn't enough to stop the races, but it's enough to stop several trainers from showing up on Tuesday. Every pick, every parade, every winner's circle, Emma frowns a little deeper when unfamiliar faces grace the paddock. Even David isn't around, which is most concerning because she'd seen no sign of him that morning at home either. "Alright, I give up. Where the hell is everyone today?" she finally asks as a man who isn't Killian leads one of Regina's horses out of the winner's circle.

Ruby flicks the screen on her phone. "It's baby day," she says, tapping away.

Emma waits patiently, eyebrows raised, until Ruby looks up. Ruby rolls her eyes, scoffing, and shoves her phone in Emma's face. "For someone who grew up on a horse farm, you're very bad at this."

It takes a few moments for the date to register in Emma's brain, and then she lets her head drop back as it clicks. "Right," she says, drawing out the vowel as Ruby takes her phone away. "And I didn't 'grow up' on a horse farm."

Ruby smirks, tapping away at the screen again. "Right, you only lived on one for, what was it, ten years?"

"Eight," Emma corrects her automatically.

Emma finds no comfort in this information, though, because it means she's more likely to run into _him_ when she goes to pick up Henry from the Horn. Her plan of clocking out as soon as possible and not quite breaking the speed limit so as to get the kid and dash back home - all for the sole purpose of not seeing Killian Jones in person - fell to pieces.

Seeing him in person means actually apologizing. Actually apologizing means admitting she's wrong, and admitting she's wrong is a hard pill to swallow.

Emma's brimming with nerves when she pulls up to the Horn. She knows Henry's cleaning in the tack room, he'd texted her, but Killian might be around too. Should she just text Henry to come out, or get over herself and walk inside? She debates with herself for five minutes before calling herself twelve kinds of idiot, cutting the engine, and trekking up the gravel.

She pauses in the doorway. The familiar scents ease the nervous knots in her chest a little, but the once-familiar shedrow makes her heart heavy. Being out in the exercise fields is one thing, but this… She'd spent quite a lot of time here in her younger days. Neal's (and Graham's) presence is everywhere. Neal had taught her how to shod a horse over there. They'd once hidden from his father and Malcolm up in that hayloft. Graham had caught Emma and Neal kissing in that stall when they were seventeen. She'd spent an entire afternoon untangling reins in the tack room with Graham to buy his silence.

Now, Emma pauses outside the tack room door, the scent of cleaning polish heavy in the air. If she tries, she can still hear his lilting voice teasing her about it, the possibility of merging the Gold and Nolan enterprises if she and Neal ever got married. She can't remember what she'd said in response, if she'd said anything. Most her memory of that day was silent humiliation and anger. And now Graham was dead, because Neal _had_ wanted to marry her. Graham had found out about Neal's little drugging scheme, and he'd paid the price for that knowledge. "I'm sorry, Graham…"

"Emma?"

She jumps and her heart stops for a moment. It can't be… Emma turns, and closes her eyes (in relief or resignation, she's not sure) when she sees it's Killian. Part of her is aware that his accent is similar to Graham's, and she realizes she'd never bothered to ask where Graham was from. He's just… he was just Graham.

Emma takes a few breaths to steady herself, forgetting that she's supposed to be nervous about apologizing. "Hi. Sorry, you startled me there," she says, laughing lightly.

"You looked as if you'd seen a ghost," he says, leaning against the wall.

She smiles tightly. "Yeah. There's a lot of them around here."

Killian scratches behind his ear. "Ah. Right, the whole…"

"...thing. Yeah."

There's a fleeting thought about why Henry hasn't come out yet and Emma realizes that he probably has headphones on. The awkward moment stretches into an awkward silence. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, unable to look Killian in the face and focusing instead on the silver chain around his neck. He scratches his jaw and clears his throat. Before he can speak, she blurts out, "Look, about yesterday, I - "

She looks him in the eye, and it's a mistake, not just because of how painfully blue they are but also because of the way he looks at her with such empathy. She swallows her next words. He knows, he _has_ to know how difficult this is for her, and what yesterday meant - why else would he be looking at her like that? "Swan, it's all right," he says, and his voice is soft and kind, better than what she feels she deserves. "I… may have stepped in more than proper. I merely felt that… that I played a part in it. I realize now that I should have kept my distance and - "

"No, you don't have to apologize, I should be the one - " Emma cuts him off, shaking her head.

He reaches out and grips her wrist lightly. Emma tenses for a moment. "Love, you already apologized last night," Killian tells her. There's a crease between his brows for a moment, and then he lets her wrist go.

She tilts her head, looking him over carefully, and her bullshit detector doesn't go off. She opens her mouth wordlessly, trying to think of something to say. He _knows_. He _gets _it. Her heart feels lighter, and a hesitant smile begins on her lips. "I didn't think…"

His smile is sincere. "Truth be told, I didn't do it all for you, or for your secrets," Killian says. "My mother's soul would have haunted me for all my days if I hadn't confessed."

Emma raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest. "Oh, I get it," she says loftily. "Guilty conscience. You'd never last under torture, Jones."

"Who's to say I haven't before?" he challenges her, grinning. She rolls her eyes, which makes him laugh, and after a moment, Emma finds herself smiling, too. The tension in the room evaporates and she can see that even he relaxes. He gestures to her hand. "How are you feeling, Swan?"

Emma holds it up: her knuckles are purplish-red. They'll be purplish-green in a few days. "Peachy."

Killian hooks his thumb over his shoulder. "I have some liniment in the office."

She smiles wryly. "I told you yesterday, Jones. I'm not one of your horses to be coddled and sweet-talked. Speaking of... It's baby day," she says, trying to be conversational, "You and everyone else decided to take today off to crowd around an ultrasound machine. I take it congratulations are in order?"

Killian shakes his head. "No, I'm afraid there's just business to attend to today. I think I'm the only shedrow in the county that Lucas didn't visit. Regina wants to breed Heart next season, but this year we're staying out of the foaling business."

"Too much too soon?" Emma wants to know.

Killian makes a few noncommittal noises, his hand wavering. "I find it's better to get my footing anywhere before we get to the business of babymaking. Usually I do the planning and then leave before the fun part begins. I'm afraid I'm a bit out of practice."

"Oh, I dunno. I find it's pretty easy to pick up again. It's like riding a bike," she says, fighting to keep her expression neutral.

He'd left himself wide open, and after all of the shots he's taken at her she can't afford to let this one go. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as he raises his eyebrows in surprise, and then he drops one as he realizes her implication. She also notices that his eyes have a way of lighting up before suggesting anything dirty. "Oh yes? I've found, Swan, that _assistance_ is often necessary when relearning to ride a bike."

He sticks the last syllable, and Emma raises an eyebrow of her ow. When his voice drops like that, dripping honey and sweet intentions, she finds she likes the warmth that comes with it. It's the result of this combination - his eyes and his enunciation and the tone of his voice - that she can't seem to find her own voice. Instead of responding, she just shoots him a self-satisfied smile and goes into the tack room.

She gets Henry's attention, and he quickly cleans up. When they leave, they find Killian lingering in the doorway to the barn. Henry waves goodbye, racing off to the Bug, and Emma follows him down the driveway at a more normal pace. "Good_bye_, Mr. Jones," she calls over her shoulder. There's not a hint of a swing in her hips, nope.

"'Killian' will do!" he calls after her, and Emma gets into the car, smiling.

* * *

"And Mr. Mason says it's about the rise of communism in Russia, but it sounds super boring," Henry complains as he and Emma head into the Point's main stable.

Emma shrugs, her hands in her back pockets. "I remember liking _Animal Farm_. Don't judge a book before you read it."

Henry rolls his eyes. "I guess. It has to be better than _Our Town_."

Emma laughs. "Sounds like the curriculum hasn't changed at all since I've been in school."

David waves from the end of the row. Emma hesitates for a moment before continuing down to him - he's by the foaling stalls. She has to count to ten, letting Henry go ahead of her. At ten, she shrugs off the unease creeping up her spine and tells herself to get over it. "Hey, David."

Henry peers over the side of the stall. "Hi, Dr. Lucas."

Emma can't see much from her angle, and she steps around Henry to the door. Dr. Lucas smiles tightly, her eyes not leaving the ultrasound machine. "The Mills boy. Haven't you shipped off to Kentucky yet?"

Henry sighs dramatically. "You see me every Saturday, Dr. Lucas."

David claps him on the shoulder, chuckling. "And his mother insists he finish school first, much to his chagrin."

"I'm wearing her down."

"Yeah, good luck with that," Emma retorts, leaning over the stall door and resting her chin on her arms. She smiles when she sees which horse is Dr. Lucas' current patient.

The roan mare tosses her head and whickers at the sight of Emma. She smiles wider. "Hey there, pretty girl," she says in a soft tone of voice she never uses with people. She ignores Henry's sniggering.

Princess has more or less been 'her' horse since David's father had bought her when Emma was sixteen. Emma had only been with the Nolans for a few months at that point and she was still surly and reluctant to engage. The hope was that giving Emma sole responsibility over something would help her recover from her time in the foster system. And she'd initially been stubborn and balked at the responsibility - not to mention the name. Emma can still hear the argument she'd had with Mr. Nolan over 'getting her' a horse named _Enchanted Princess_. Eventually the two-year old filly had won her over. Emma had been in charge of Princess up until she'd left Storybrooke.

Now, the fourteen-year old mare is being wiped down by the vet. "Congratulations," Dr. Lucas tells David dryly. "It's a horse."

Henry giggles. "I leave for five years and you get my baby pregnant," Emma teases David, who rolls his eyes.

"This is her third foal, don't even start."

Emma's brows knit together in consternation, trying to remember if she'd been told about a second. She remembers the first, when she was twenty and practically slept in the barn through Christmas, anxious and excited all at once for the colt to be born. Surely David would have told her about a second foal. "And probably her last," Dr. Lucas injects. "A good broodmare can breed for a few more years, but with her age and history, I'm concerned about how this foaling will go. I said last time that breeding again would have risks."

Emma looks at David incredulously. There's a second of fear on his face. "_David!_"

David composes himself. He glares at Dr. Lucas while speaking to Emma, "She said any risks were _low_ risks, and it's been three years so it's okay to try again."

Emma frowns. "Well that explains why you didn't tell me you weren't coming in today. What happened?" David hesitates a second too long and she pushes herself off the door. "David, tell me what happened."

"The foal died," David tells her quietly. "I wasn't there, it happened overnight, she went into labor sooner than I thought. We think it was hypoxia during the birth."

She blanches. She remembers enough to put the hows and whys together, a fraction of a percent of a chance in any foaling. Henry grabs Emma's hand. She doesn't realize she's shaking until he squeezes. "Emma."

Emma looks at Dr. Lucas. "I was going to take her riding today," she says, feeling small.

The vet peers at Emma over her glasses. It's reassuring. "Doctor's orders: you ride her until you can't get a saddle on her comfortably," she says sternly. Emma knows this, she does, her brain just has to catch up to the rest of her. "Don't push her too hard, but don't pussyfoot around her either. She'll be healthier and have a better shot at keeping this one come December if you do. I'll let you know when that changes."

Emma swallows hard and nods, squeezing Henry's hand. "Go get one of Mary Margaret's horses ready, kid, and I'll meet you outside."

She's extra careful with Princess as she saddles up, talking to her softly the whole time. The mare's ears flick back towards her occasionally, as if she's really listening intently. Emma's logical brain says it's fine, and that Dr. Lucas would have said if something was wrong and forbidden her from riding until after the foal was born, but Princess is her baby. As much as she'd kicked up a fuss about it at first, Princess is as much hers as she is David's.

Which is why him keeping the foal's death from her hurts so much.

"Dammit," Emma grumbles, swiping at her eyes and leading Princess out to meet Henry.

If she's quieter than she may have been otherwise during their ride, Henry doesn't mention it. He fills the space instead, chattering on about his friends - he mentions a girl named Grace a few times, and part of Emma files that information away for future use - and plans for summer vacation. They're turning back to the farm when he asks, "You're not going to the Derby, are you?"

Emma raises her eyebrow at him. "Why would I?"

Henry shrugs. "We're going. Mom and Robin said something about David and Mary Margaret, so I thought…"

She hums sardonically. "Yeah, hasn't been mentioned. I'm probably on babysitting duty."

"Oh, come on, I think they would have at least _asked _you to babysit. What, are you going to just wake up and surprise! There's Leo, wearing the spaghetti bowl and eating Cheerios out of a box like a caveman, completely unsupervised."

He startles a laugh out of her. "Oh please, like the first thing he'd do wouldn't be to run down to the barns. He _is_ David's kid."

"True."

After a moment, Emma glances at Henry sidelong. "So, speaking of Kentucky…"

Henry groans. "Please don't."

"Sorry, kid, big sister privileges. So what's with school, anyway? I thought you were going as soon as you could."

Henry's quiet for a bit. Emma lets him stew over his answer. She'd figured he would have brought it up in the weeks she's been home, and the fact that he hasn't makes her wonder. There's 'let them come to you with a problem', and then there's 'ignore it and hope it goes away', and at this point she feels it's starting to become the latter. Enough time passes that she thinks he's just going to ignore her after all, but then he speaks. "I don't know if I'm small enough," Henry says quietly.

"Height or weight?" She's seen plenty of jocks Henry's height, or even taller.

"Weight. And Mom… She said something to Dr. Hopper about it once during a joint session, and I got sent home with a shit ton of brochures warning about the dangers of 'eating disorders in the adolescent male'," he says sarcastically, going to far as to make air quotes.

"Henry, did - "

"_No_, Emma, God. It was to scare me away from it. They were stupid."

Emma's not sure her heart can take any more anxiety today. Part of her knows he's just reacting like any teenager whose parent is meddling in their life. But the other part never heard him say 'I'm not small enough so I'm not going to do it'. And that part is louder. "It's not stupid, and I swear to God, Henry, if you become bulimic I'm dragging you to a clinic myself."

Henry snorts, and Emma snaps.

From there, it's a heated conversation all the way back to the barn, with Emma dumping stats and concerns and second-hand stories over Henry's barbs and both of their frustrations mounting. It's _that many calories is not enough for anyone to function, much less a teenage boy_ and _what, so I'm just supposed to give up my dream, is that it _and _scars on your fingers_ and _not going to do it, not looking for you to fix it_ and _God, would you just listen to me_ and _I already have a mom, stop acting like her._ They're almost at the barn when she finally reins in to a halt, both of them trading glares. "Look, kid, I know it's what you wanted, but you can't kill yourself over a dream. It's one thing to drop out of school and go get your apprenticeship and a GED, it's another to make yourself sick and _die_."

He doesn't say anything, only dismounts and leads his horse back to Mary Margaret's stables, and Emma lets him go. He's allowed to be angry with her. And Lord knows she's been angry enough in the last few days to know when someone needs their space. As she leads Princess back inside, she pulls out her phone and texts Regina to have someone pick up Henry.

The response is almost immediate. '_I thought he'd be with you through dinner?'_

'_Change of plans. I kind of pissed him off.'_

Emma counts and she makes it to thirteen when her phone starts ringing. "I talked to him about jockey school," Emma says in lieu of greeting. It's better to head Regina off instead of letting her gather steam. "And he told me about the thing with Hopper."

Regina sighs on the other end. "Tell him Robin will be there in forty-five minutes."

"If he's speaking to me."

In the end, Emma has David relay the message - not only does she know David will be received, but Emma can also use his guilt over not telling her about Princess to her advantage for a while. Emma stays in the shadows of the shedrow when Robin's car comes up the drive, watching as Henry sulks out to it and gets in. She steps into the doorway as the car door slams, and she lifts her hand. She can see Robin nod in her direction, but Henry's not looking. Emma twists her mouth into a grim line as Robin drives off.

Henry will be fine in a day or so.

She hopes.

-/-

There's a storm in the air on Saturday. Killian frequently glances at the sky, waiting for it to break, waiting for the stewards to call the day off. There's no lightning, just a snarl of dodgy clouds, so the day goes without a hitch until mid-afternoon when the sky finally opens up on them and everyone is forced inside. At the first fork of lightning, the rest of the day is cancelled, leaving everyone to scramble getting their charges back to the stables and keeping them calm. Killian finds solace in the fact that most of Malcolm's and Regina's horses have been trained to remain calm against sudden calamity, and he pities his fellows who are dodging hooves left and right.

It's a light end-of-day for him, not having to trailer anyone home. There's no point to it, not when they're racing early next week as well. And with Will in New York with three of the others, his evening will be light as well. Killian rubs Pan down with a drying cloth, absently listening to the chatter in the row. "Emma, he'll be fine," he hears Regina Hood say, the familiar cadence of her heels clicking closer.

"He hasn't said a word to me since Tuesday, it's just a little weird."

The corners of Killians mouth tick up at the sound of Emma's voice. They haven't had the chance to speak again since Tuesday, though a few texts have been exchanged in the interim. She's witty, he's found, when he's peeled back her armor - or when she takes it off voluntarily. He's had to make himself stick to a few messages here and there, or else he'd get nothing done in favor of this bizarre flirty-friendship they're developing. "He's fifteen," Regina replies drily. "If you can't outlast a sullen teenager's sulking, you're not the person I thought you were."

Ah, they're discussing the boy. Come to think of it, Killian has noticed Henry seems less… chipper these last few days than he has been in the last few weeks. If anything is said in the next moment, he misses it due to the crash of thunder outside and the cries of frightened horses up and down the stable. When it's quieter, he hears a less than ladylike noise, and then Emma asks, "When are you guys leaving for Kentucky?"

"Wednesday. Roland wants to see the parade on Thursday, and I thought we'd at least tour the jockey academy with Henry on Friday. That might help or hurt, I don't know," Regina says with a sigh.

"Maybe it'll do him some good. Perspective or something."

"He's had his eye on that particular prize for so long, I just don't know how he'll take to dropping it - if that's what he chooses to do."

Killian listens with interest. He's missed a page here or there, it seems, but that's the price for keeping your nose out of business that's not yours. It's a pity, Henry would make a fine jock. There's a knock on the stall door behind him, and he doesn't even need to look to see who it is. "Hello, Swan."

He does look, though, glancing over his shoulder. She's leaning around the entrance, giving him a close-lipped smile as her eyes trace a line from his head to his boots and back up again. "Hey there, eavesdropper."

He scoffs, running the cloth down Pan's flank one last time. "I've done nothing of the sort, _a mhuirnín_. Hardly a man's fault when a conversation can be heard from here to the capital."

She looks a bit bewildered at the Irish endearment but shakes her head. "In this storm? Right. So, you ditching town next weekend too?"

Killian slaps the cloth against his palm lightly, strolling up to the door. She steps back and he takes her place. She fixes him with a skeptical glare and he grins in return. As much as he likes their friendly banter, the flustered steps she takes and the range of emotions on her face are more enjoyable. "Not much for personal space, are you?" Emma asks, finally stopping and they're inches apart.

"Not at all," he chirps.

She fixes him with a glare, but there's a glint of amusement in her eyes. "You gonna answer my question, or just get cozy?"

"Why not both?" Killian asks, and he leans closer to her for good measure, speaking low - just for her. "No, I will not be vacating the premises next weekend. I take it by your tone that you will be remaining in town as well?"

"That's right," she says dryly. They're close enough that he can feel the puff of air from her speaking on his cheek and smell the strawberry-flavored something she'd eaten earlier. "And I was gonna ask if you wanted to come over and watch the races, but seeing as how you're already being really inappropriate _and_ I'm babysitting Leo all weekend, I'm reconsidering."

Whatever he had been expecting of this encounter, this is entirely new territory - interesting territory, even. He could hardly count it as a romantic encounter, if the Nolan lad will be there, but it's intriguing that she should ask him to keep her company.

There's another flash of lightning and a clap of thunder, and Emma jumps a little at the sound. He remembers how she jumped at Spencer's outburst earlier in the week and makes a note of it to consider later. Now, he straightens and takes a few steps back, holding his hands up in innocence. "How is this inappropriate?"

Emma snorts. "Is it too late to purchase Leo a ticket as well?" Regina asks wryly from where she's propped up against the wall behind Emma. Her grin is wolfish. "Or will you two be putting him to bed early?"

Killian grins as Emma shoots her a dirty look. "Now this. This is craic," he tells Regina, pointing between himself and her. "I like this. We should do this more often."

Emma squeaks in outrage, which only makes him grin wider. "I hate both of you," she grumbles and steps around him.

"You don't," Regina calls after her retreating back.

Emma flips them the bird, which only makes Killian and Regina start to laugh. "I hope you lose all your bets," Emma fires back, walking down the row.

Regina is nonplussed. "I hope all Mary Margaret leaves you to eat is pasta!"

"I hope you get mud on your Gucci dresses!"

Oh and she's a sight to see, fired up when he's not the direct cause of it - or even in that case. Walking that fine line between temper and annoyance will be a challenge, but Killian Jones isn't a man afraid of a challenge. "I'll be there round ten, shall I?" he calls, grinning.

The lightning and thunder highlight the shadows and make the walls shake. She tosses her hair, calling over her shoulder, "You'll get my foot in your ass around ten!"

Regina pats him on the shoulder as he chuckles. "We should definitely do this more often," she says.

-/-

"I can't believe I did that," Emma mumbles, her arm thrown over her face.

Rain beats against the attic window and across the roof. Leo's down for the night, David's out in the barn with Phillip going over procedure while he and Mary Margaret are out of town. Mary Margaret is stretched out next to Emma on her bed, flipping through a magazine. "You're a grown woman. Just don't neglect my son, or I'll have to kick your ass."

"I did not invite him over for - for whatever you're implying. Which is not what we'll be doing. We're watching the Derby and that's it."

Her sister-in-law giggles. "Right, you invite every man you've only known a few weeks over for a day of betting and watching a five-year old while you also have the house mostly to yourself."

Emma grumbles, flipping over onto her side to face her. She wishes Mary Margaret didn't know her so well. "He's good company."

"He's nice. And funny. And handsome. And _single_."

"_Mary_."

Mary Margaret drops the magazine. "Emma, if you're looking for someone to talk you out of this, the damage is done. If you want to renege or something, you have to do it yourself. But I have a feeling you don't want to, you're just getting scared because this is the first guy you're interested in since Neal." Emma's pointed silence stretches too long, the sound of the rain filling the room, and Mary Margaret gasps. "You never said!"

"And you never said what happened to Princess," Emma retorts. "I think we're even. There was this guy Walsh, but it didn't work out. He wanted too much that I wasn't ready for."

There's also the small detail that Walsh had been a bit too good to be true - he hadn't been _quite_ as divorced from his wife as he'd originally claimed, but Emma doesn't like to think about that. It makes her anxious again and she really doesn't want to feel any more anxiety tonight. Mary Margaret hums in interest, picking up the _Better Home and Gardens_ again. "Two for two on that front then…"

Emma reaches behind her for ammo and whaps her with a decorative pillow. "_I_ didn't even know Neal still wanted to marry me."

Mary Margaret takes the pillow from her and drops it on Emma's head. "To be fair, I don't think any of us did, not until it was too late." She flips a page in the magazine, pausing for a moment. "Do you think we need new patio furniture?"

Emma half-shrugs, rolling onto her back. "I don't know, I haven't seen what you've got."

Emma's phone buzzes, and Mary Margaret smirks. Emma whaps her with the pillow again and picks it up while her sister-in-law laughs. '_Shall I bring snacks, Swan?_'

"Who is it?" Mary Margaret asks, a little too innocently.

Emma's fighting a losing battle with her frown. "Shut up," she says, tapping out a reply to Killian.

-/-

Her reply makes him smile. '_If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it right. Themed food, hats, the whole 9 yards.'_

'_What is it with you Americans and that saying?'_

'_idk. What's with half the things you say?'_

Before he can think of a reply, his phone buzzes again. '_Just bring something themed.'_

Another message arrives a fraction of a second later. '_And a hat.'_

He smiles. Her texting habits say a lot about her. He sets his phone on the nightstand and lays back in bed, combing his hair with his fingers. A light work evening - shortened more by the rain - may have been a rare treat, but having an evening where he didn't have anything to do but overthink the implications of Emma's invitation was less than welcome. Did it mean something? Was she interested, or was it friendly? It could go either way, really, if their interactions were anything to go on. Then again, the boy _would _be there, so that was a point against anything more than friendly. Perhaps she just wanted the company of an adult for the day and found he was suitable enough. _Suitable enough, that's me_, he thinks, tossing again and warming the sheets further.

Si jumps up onto the bed, yowling at him for attention. He smiles, obliging her by scratching under her chin. "What do you think, _a chroí_? Am I thinking too much about it?"

She chirps at him and begins to purr, curling up next to him. He chuckles. "That's always your answer, darling."

It's not a bad one though. Sleep on it, and deal with it later. Am jumps up to join them, and takes over his other pillow. He turns over, careful not to disturb either of them, and fixes his pillow. Sleep doesn't come easy, but at least the rain is pleasant to listen to until he drifts off.


	9. April 30 - May 3

It takes four days for Emma's nerves to get the best of her.

It happens while Mary Margaret is running all over the house, making sure everything is packed or turned off (never mind that Emma and Leo will both be home in the interim) or cleaned (again, people will be home) or thrown out ("You'll be gone four days. Seriously."). Emma keeps Leo busy during all of this, playing the bad guy to his Ninjago hero and claiming all sorts of rules for how she didn't 'die' during each of his attacks. "Sorry, kid, snakes get to come back to life _seven_ times," she teases, getting up and lifting him high in the air as he screams in laughter.

"No fair, Aunt Emma!"

"Hey, you said ninjas get to be double-triple ghosts, snakes get eight lives!" she says, and whips the blanket off his bed, wrapping her squirming nephew in it. "Oh no, looks like the snake killed the ninja, we win the Earth forever."

She drops Leo on his bed, and he wriggles out of the blanket, brandishing his foam sword. "Nuh-uh, double-triple ghosts can't be killed, and we get _super powers_ to forever-kill the Serpentine!"

Leo whacks her in the knees with his sword as Mary Margaret comes in. "Leopold James Nolan! We do not ninja-sword our aunts in this house!" she scolds.

Emma winces-he only hit her twice, but that foam sword company grossly underestimated the power of small children. Leo drops the sword, contrite. Mary Margaret crosses her arms. "What do you say?"

"Sorry, Aunt Emma…" he mumbles and hugs her legs.

Emma ruffles his hair before he lets go. "It's okay, Leo. What's up?" she asks Mary Margaret.

Mary Margaret glances at her son and then leads Emma into the hallway. She exhales slowly, wringing her hands. "I was just thinking-wondering really-if you had everything you needed to cook for Saturday. I mean, I know it's just going to be the three of you, but what if you didn't have the right ingredients? And are you cooking very much, or is it just a little?" Emma listens with increasing amusement and a little bit of awe as Mary Margaret picks up speed. It's more amazing that she doesn't trip over her words. "I mean, I know it's only three people, well two people really because-let's face it-Leo isn't the most adventurous eater and he'll probably just want a peanut butter sandwich. Oh, shoot, do we have peanut butter? Or bread? Should I run out to the store for you? I mean, I still have a million more things to do around here, but if you had an idea of what you wanted to make, you could give me a list, and in the morning I can run and get some last-minute groceries for you before we leave and-"

Emma grabs Mary Margaret by the shoulders and gives her a little shake to silence her. "Hey. Look at me," she instruct. "We will be fine. If you didn't want Leo to survive on takeout for four days, you shouldn't have left him with me."

Mary Margaret sighs in exasperation, freeing herself from Emma's grip. "I know it'll be good for us, the first grown-up vacation we've taken since Leo was born, but I'm _worried_. And you threatening to feed him pizza for four days doesn't help."

"I didn't say I'd feed him pizza for four days. We can also order Chinese."

"Emma!"

Emma smiles, holding up her hands as Mary Margaret paces in circles. "Okay, apparently the joking thing isn't going to work. But it's still going to be fine. If, somehow, we run out of food in four days I know how to drive to the grocery store, and you're leaving the car seat with me because he still has to go to school. We will have food and be safe about it."

Mary Margaret buries her face in her hands and heaves a sigh. "I know. You're right. You're right and I'm just freaking out. And you'll call the second something happens? Or otherwise? And text? And just let me know nothing's on fire or no one's had to go to the ER or you aren't pregnant or-"

"_Okay_, that's enough of that," Emma interrupts, her heart leaping into her throat. She slings her arm around Mary Margaret's shoulders and brings her back into Leo's room. He's abandoned his ninja ambitions in favor of Dr. Seuss. "Leo, why don't you tell your mom what we're planning on doing while she and your dad are on vacation?"

She slips out of the room as Leo launches into the grand details about what he's going to do at school and how he's going to learn to ride a real horse in the time his parents will be away and how they're going to go to the "jumpoline" place-Emma never agreed to either of those last parts, but she's pretty sure Mary Margaret knows that. Hopefully.

She sits with a groan on the stairs to the attic. _"It's just going to be the three of you."_ Emma doesn't want to think about that, and about how suddenly the rambling old farmhouse-currently housing three adults and a child with room to spare-seems much smaller with the prospect of only herself, Leo, and Killian in it. _"It's just going to be the three of you."_ Shit, and he was coming over early. Would Leo even be alright with just one other person in the house? How was Mary Margaret okay this plan? _"It's just going to be the three of you."_

The way he looked at her sometimes, his gaze soft, a hint of a smile on his parted lips-had she she seriously thought this plan through? Or when that soft smile parted, just a bit, and she could see the way his tongue traced the inside of his lip just before he made some stupid joke.

Oh, she's seriously thought about this.

_"It's just going to be the three of you."_

Fuck.

Her phone can't come out of her pocket fast enough. She starts a new group text. _'Hey, what's everyone doing Saturday? Me and Leo have a standing Derby date. Come over w appropriate food and hats around 10'_

-/-

There are butterflies flitting about in his stomach as Killian mounts the stairs to the Nolans' front porch. He'd told himself all morning that there's no reason to feel nervous about this. It's just two friends watching sports all day. With a child in the house. It's completely innocent.

Laden down with food as he is, he stands dumbfounded at the door, wondering how he's supposed to get inside. He probably should have thought about this a bit more before deciding to make only one trip from the truck to the house-but in his defense, it was starting to rain again and he didn't have an umbrella. His Stetson did nothing to protect the food.

He kicks at the storm door in a vain effort to announce his presence. He looks around for a place to set something down and resigns himself to the suspiciously thin railing when the door opens. "Mr. Jones!"

Killian blinks a few times before he recognizes Anna Adgarssen, the clerk of scales, beaming at him. She holds the door open while relieving him of a tray, talking a mile a minute. "You're just in time, we're deciding on the betting pools. How do you know Emma? Oh, wait, that's a dumb question, you know the Nolans, they probably introduced you. We just met today, isn't she nice? So sweet of her to have a party, Elsa and I were just going to have a quiet day at home-Kristoff is in Chicago, it's playoffs you know, he said they wouldn't be there long enough for me to bother coming along even though we haven't seen each other in a few weeks. Though he's all beardy and hairy now so I'm not exactly complaining about that, you know? But anyway, Elsa gets a text and what do you know? Suddenly we have plans! It's nice to see everyone even when we have the day off work!"

_Everyone?_

His confusion only mounts with this load of information, but other things started to make sense, such as the number of cars outside. Had he misunderstood? Anna beckons him to the dining room, where Emma is rearranging the impressive spread of food. She looks startled for the briefest of moments when she sees him and then grins. "Hey, you made it."

He feels his smile may be forced but she doesn't appear to notice. Maybe he _had_ misunderstood-aside from other people in the house, she's dressed much the same way she had been during their tequila talk. Not that his plaid or jeans were much better, but at least he'd showered and changed since the morning workouts. "Is that banana nut bread?" Emma asks as Anna bustles about to slide his tray of bourbon shrimp somewhere among the rest.

"Fresh-made this morning," Killian says, offering the pan to her.

Emma's eyebrows go up. "You made this yourself?"

There's an itch just under his ear and his hands are still too full to scratch it. "Aye," he says, aware that Anna is watching them. "I'm up early enough with the horses, I had enough time to whip up a few things."

Emma grabs a plastic knife and cuts into the loaf, still balanced on his hand in the pan. The worshipful sound she emits when she bites into the end almost makes him drop the pan, the salad bowl, and possibly himself onto the floor. "Did you know," she says, mouth still full, "that the only thing in the world I might actually commit murder over is banana nut bread?"

Anna slips out of the room, mumbling to herself around what sounds suspiciously like a giggle. Killian's throat feels very dry all of a sudden. He clears it, really wishing he'd set everything down so that blasted itch might stop. "Why do I have a feeling that's not the case?" His bloody voice squeaks like a schoolboy's and damn if she's not fast enough to stop a bit of laughter before she slaps her hand over her mouth.

"Aunt Emma!" the lad's voice yells from the next room. "Ruby's hogging the crayons!"

"I am not!"

"Are too!"

_Thank God_, Killian thinks as the focus shifts from his eejit self to the lad. Emma side-eyes the doorway with a sigh. "We're all in there, set that down and come get ready to lose all your money," she says, sticking the rest of the banana nut slice in her mouth and grabbing a glass from the table.

"A bit early for juleps, isn't it?" he asks, doing as she bid.

"Iced tea and bloody Marys are on the menu this morning. Juleps are later."

As tempting as the Marys are in this moment, he sticks to the tea. "I don't know why you lot call this tea," he says, following her into the living room. "Proper tea is hot and milky, not this sodding sticky sweetness."

"Don't tell it to me, tell it to the South," Emma retorts. "Ruby, share your crayons."

Killian knows only Emma, Leo and Anna out of the six other people in the room. Anna seems to take to the role of hostess much faster than Emma does and makes the introductions. The other bloke is called Victor and he works up in broadcast as well. "I watch you five days a week, of course I know who you are," he jokes when they shake hands, earning a backhanded smack on the legs from the woman on the floor. She's the one coloring with the lad, and he surmises that makes her Ruby.

Elsa is the last to be introduced. Killian recalls seeing her a time or two around the locker rooms and scales. "I'm usually bringing Anna something she left at home. I can't tell you the number of texts I get every week with a list of things she's forgotten," Elsa says when he mentions it. Anna just shrugs without a hint of embarrassment. She then commandeers the coffee table to work out the betting pools, the bubbly friendliness from before slipping behind her professional mask.

As the conversation turns to money (increasingly his least favorite subject these days) Killian finds himself sitting on the floor with Ruby and Leo. Ruby colors in shapes on the brim of a large paper hat. "What's this then?" he asks.

Leo regards him solemnly from under the brim of his baseball cap. "Ruby didn't have a hat. Aunt Emma says you have to wear a hat today so we're making one. Is that your hat?"

There's a snort of laughter from the adult conversation going on above him, but Killian ignores it. He doffs the Stetson, holding out for the boy to inspect. "It is. It's the only thing I had, does it pass your inspection?"

Leo frowns, tapping his chin. "I guess so," he says finally. "It'd be cooler if it had a dinosaur on it."

There's another muffled laugh, and Killian glances up to see Elsa shushing Emma. Grinning, Killian leans towards Leo conspiratorially. "How's about this then?" he stage-whispers. "Why don't you draw a dinosaur, and we'll figure out how to stick it on here after?"

"Yeah!"

The lad gets to work and Killian sits back, putting his hat back on. He looks up again as he takes a pull from his too-sweet tea, and Emma looks away too quickly. Killian grins slowly. Maybe he'd misunderstood, but he could work with that.

-/-

Emma's felt edgy all morning. She'd woken up earlier than usual and the nervous feeling has only multiplied as time goes by. Elsa and Anna had been the first to arrive and Emma had been gently ordered around by Elsa's younger sister almost from the moment she set foot in the door. It's almost a relief to let her take charge of the party. Emma's never been good at playing hostess, but Anna appears to be a natural at making sure everyone's comfortable and on good terms. Emma mentions this to Elsa as Anna mockingly berates Victor for short-changing her. Elsa watches her sister fondly. "She's good with people," she says.

Leo cheers on the other side of the room; Emma glances over to see that he's successfully taped a dinosaur-looking drawing to Killian's hat. Killian glances at her from under the brim and winks. Emma hurriedly looks away again, feeling warm. "But?" Emma prods when Elsa says nothing further.

Elsa's startled. "But? Oh, there's no but, there's just a lot of ands. Anna worked at a halfway house until it closed down, and had to move back home. She's good at helping people, and she's got a head for numbers, so when the clerk job came up I told her to apply. The fights in the locker rooms have gone down drastically since she took over."

Emma lifts her glass to her lips. "Moved back home from where?"

"Boston. That's how I met Kristoff," Anna replies. She looks over her Bruins-clad shoulder, the picture of mischief. "I'm right here, I can hear you two. And it wasn't a halfway house, Elsa, it was a group home for foster kids."

Emma chokes on her tea. Anna grabs a stack of napkins as Emma splutters and tea goes everywhere, feeling like she's coughing up her lungs as she's patted down. Elsa hammers on her back with a fist until Emma holds up her hand to stop. She can feel every eye on the room on her and she just wants the attention off her, so she flaps her hand at the others to carry on. Anna grimaces apologetically as conversation picks back up. "Sorry," she says softly. "I should have dropped that bombshell a little softer. I thought you had that look in your eye, all the kids did, but I thought I might be mistaken. I haven't worked with anyone who aged out of the system before. How long were you in one?"

Emma's hands are cold. She knows 'that look' that Anna's talking about. It's the one that made the Nolans buy Princess, the one that made David grab her by the hand and drag her home for dinner. It's the look that got her mercilessly bullied at eight different schools in the span of five years, the look she'd seen every day reflected back at her in the mirror until she learned to hide it behind a mask of indifference.

The look of someone who was lost and just wanted to find her way home.

She'd found it with the Nolans, eventually, but by then it had been too late to erase the feeling completely.

She considers silence as an answer, but Anna's watching her with open honesty, patience, and a complete lack of judgement. Emma sees where Elsa might summarize it as 'Anna's good with people', because she can't quite put her finger on why she's suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to let her guard down around her. "A month," Emma says under her breath.

Anna reaches over and squeezes Emma's hand briefly. "I'm glad you found home," she whispers, and she turns back to her notebook.

The races start, and if Emma thought watching them over the years with David's family had been eye-opening, it's an entirely different experience now. Ruby, as the granddaughter of a vet, can pick out which horses will be late scratches or breakdowns just during the pre-race coverage. Killian sweeps half the money pot every race. "It's in their eyes. They want to win," he says every time with a shameless grin, as if the explanation did any of them any good.

When Ruby isn't winning, Emma usually splits the pot with him, but Elsa, Anna, and Victor are hopeless. "All of you work around these things daily!" Emma exclaims with a laugh, taking another twenty from Victor after the fourth race of the day. "How are you so awful at it?"

Anna, now wearing her obnoxiously large-brimmed sunhat and building Legos with Leo, sighs. "I work with the jocks, not the animals," she tells them. "And when every jock on that roster is talented, it's hard for me to pick!"

Emma's in the kitchen during a commercial break making Leo his peanut butter sandwich (Mary Margaret _did_ end up buying new bread and peanut butter before leaving) when Killian comes in search of water. "Tap, or filtered's in the fridge," Emma instructs, cutting the sandwich into quarters.

"Are you alright, love?" Killian asks, opting for the tap.

She looks up at him quizzically. "Yeah, fine. Why?"

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug, looking at her pointedly. "Your coughing fit earlier?"

Her cheeks feel warm. "Oh," she mumbles, looking away again. "Anna just startled me at the wrong moment."

He reaches over and tweaks a streamer hanging from her sunhat. She presses her lips together to keep from smiling. She and Leo had spent much of last night decorating one of Mary Margaret's flowered hats for the occasion, and the result is a collection of cut-up party streamers, three plastic dinosaurs, and a Hotwheels car precariously balanced on her head. They'd sent a few pictures to Mary Margaret, with the promise that the hat would be restored to normal before she got back. Now, Killian chuckles. "Your hat is quite fetching, darling. I'm a little insulted that the lad thought mine only needed one dinosaur though."

"Don't be jealous," she teases, picking up Leo's dinner. "I'm sure if you asked nicely you'd get another one."

They end up sitting next to each other on the floor, backs against the couch, while Emma encourages Leo to eat properly. She's very aware of Killian's warmth next to her, increasing with every accidental brush of hands or when she elbows him for complaining loudly that he only has one dinosaur on his hat. Leo's only too happy to comply, though, and soon insists on decorating everyone's hats with dinosaurs. Ruby gets him back by drawing her own dinosaur and taping it to his unadorned baseball hat.

Emma makes a mental note to send thank you cards to everyone for being super patient with the fact that they had to hang out with a five year old all day.

They catch glimpses of Mary Margaret and David in the crowd shots, and once or twice the Hood-Mills family up in the VIP seats. Each time, Emma snaps a photo of the TV and sends it to Mary Margaret with instructions to watch for the camera panning. She sends one to Henry and Regina as well, but only Regina replies.

It stings that Henry's still giving her the silent treatment, but Regina's right: Emma's a grown woman and can outlast a sullen teenager. Still, she's dying to know how the trip to the school had gone. Finding out from his mom isn't the same as finding out from Henry himself.

On what seems to be the last crowd shot, they see Mary Margaret and David again, and they wave. Leo is ecstatic; Emma gets the whole thing on video and sends it to them. Killian nudges her. "You're being very diligent about documenting."

She nudges him right back. "Mary Margaret made me promise to keep her updated."

There's movement at the corner of her eye and Emma turns to see Ruby silently gagging. Emma balls up a napkin and whips it at her, missing by a mile. Ruby laughs, leaning back against Victor's legs. Anna holds up her notebook. "Any last minute bets? Five minutes to post!"

"You should take Leroy's job," Victor says. Anna beams. "What the hell, put me down for another twenty on the eight."

"_'What the hell'_? Dude, you have lost so much money today," Ruby exclaims, backhanding his knee.

Victor shrugs, taking another sip of his mint julep. "I budgeted for this, babe. It's fine. I'm feeling good about my picks."

"Don't expect me to pay your rent this month, bro," she tells him.

"You live with me, Red."

Elsa laughs. Killian nudges Emma again and she raises an eyebrow at him. "How about it, Swan, another wager?"

She's suspicious of that glint in his eye, the slow smile creeping up on his lips. "Like what?" she asks slowly.

He reaches between them, lifting her hand up in his, lacing their fingers together and gripping tight. Her heart races as he leans over. "What fun would it be if I told you?" he murmured, their hands close enough to his lips that she could feel them brushing against her fingertips.

"Get a room, you two, it's about to go off," Ruby says, flapping her hands at them.

He doesn't release her hand for the entire race. Leo's jumping up and down and yelling at the TV for the whole race, and Emma's sure that something exciting has happened because everyone else is yelling but she's holding her breath and just so very _acutely_ aware of the small circles being traced onto the side of her hand and the electricity pulsing through her veins. Then she's being jostled and Leo's launched himself into her lap. Killian's hand is gone and Victor wails in agony. Emma looks at the TV, the numbers on the screen, and she's stunned to see her picks in the top four. "Holy sssshhhh-crap," she says finally.

"Don't even whine about this, babe," Ruby's telling Victor, who is huddled on the floor. "You brought this on yourself."

Anna swiftly counts through and shuffles the prize money, handing the neat stack to Emma with a grin. "Congrats, now go hide all of this before Victor realizes he can totally just take it from you."

Emma wads up the cash and sticks it down her shirt, grinning. Ruby sniggers. "Well, that's that. Clean up time," Elsa announces, heading into the dining room.

"I think we ate most of it," Emma calls after her. She starts to get up. Killian's watching the winner's circle coverage intently. He seems to notice her staring and his eyes flick to her. One corner of his mouth lifts in a brief smile and then he's watching the show again.

"Aunt Emma, are Mama and Daddy coming home now?" Leo asks.

She takes off her hat and settles it onto his head. "They'll be here tomorrow, kiddo. But we'll Facetime with them again tonight before bed, okay?"

As quickly as everyone had arrived, it seems like they clear out just as fast. Dishes are taken and tables are cleared, trash and recycling dropped in their respective bins. Leo asks if he can watch a movie and Emma agrees, thinking to tackle the dishes she'd left in the sink.

Killian's in the dining room. He's carefully carving what's left of his banana nut bread out of the pan and into a container. "Oh, God. I thought you'd left, sorry," Emma says, hurrying to take over. "Let me get that."

He slides it out of her reach. "Swan, I've got it," he says gently. "I merely thought I'd leave this with you, seeing as how you-how did you put it?-might actually commit murder over it?"

She breathes a laugh. "I mean… There's a first time for everything," she says, taking the pan from him when it's empty. She ignores his protests as she takes it to the kitchen and drops it in the soaking water with the rest. "You're feeding me, I can wash a damn bread pan," she says, turning on the hot water.

He leans on the counter next to her. "Can I ask you something?"

Emma shrugs, drizzling in a bit more soap. "Shoot."

"Was this going to be a party when you invited me initially? Or did I grossly misunderstand your intentions?"

Emma freezes. Damn. She can count on one finger the number of people who have been able to read her like a book, and he's currently in Kentucky. Maybe she should rethink that number. Killian reaches over and turns off the water, chuckling. "I think that answers my question," he says. "If you were uncomfortable being alone in my presence, Swan, you should have said so. I wouldn't have been offended."

She braces herself on the counter, breathing out slowly. She's not in the business of doling out false hope, and she's starting to think she'd made a mistake in throwing this party.

Hell, she'd been having that thought since he'd come in bearing banana nut bread and a nervous smile.

"No," she says finally. "It wasn't that, it was… well, it _was_ that. But not how you think, it was…" She grinds her teeth together. She hates admitting this aloud. "I was afraid. Nervous."

He moves some of her hair over her shoulder. She realizes that she hasn't flinched away from his touch all day, not like she has before. It makes her more nervous. "Afraid of what?" Killian sounds as nervous as she feels.

She looks over at him, with his Stetson pushed high on his head, both of Leo's drawings still taped to it. He's leaning against her counter and watching her with that soft look in his eye that he only uses with her or his animals, looking for all the world like he belonged there. That scared her. _He_ scared her.

Emma turns herself fully to face him and takes a deep breath. "This," she says, and she grabs his shirt, pulling him to her, their lips crashing together.

-/-

She tastes like mint and bananas, and on any other woman it might be off-putting, but with Emma Swan it's intoxicating.

Killian's hands go to her waist, pulling her flush against him, needing to feel more, taste _more_. In seconds, he's sure he could never tire of anything she has to offer him, could have her thousands upon thousands of times and never find her tasting, feeling, _being_ the same way twice. His hand moves to bury itself in that fine golden hair just as he feels the light scrape of her nails along the back of his neck.

It's the nails that do it.

He pushes her back against the counter, his hands sliding down her body to cup her arse, and her leg lifts to hook around his, pulling them closer together. She opens to him and it takes every ounce of his control not to devour her. She's warmth and sweetness, every touch of her tongue against his setting his very soul aflame. He lifts her onto the counter and she knocks his hat to the floor as her fingers card through and grip his hair at turns. Her legs wrap around his waist, and _God in heaven_, she could kill a man with the delicious way she moaned into his mouth as he pressed himself against her center.

Maybe they've only been at it for minutes or maybe hours have passed and then the lad is calling, "Aunt Emma, the Netflix is broken!" and she pulls away.

He can't catch his breath and she rests her forehead against his, breathing just as hard. Her legs loosen their grip around his waist. He feels too warm, his jeans too tight, and the gap now between them too wide. If not for Leo, he might have had his way with her right here in the damn kitchen.

Maybe she would have let him.

"That was…" he breathes, unable to find the right word. Eye-opening? Astounding? Life-changing? _Magical_?

"Something we both needed to get out of our systems," she finishes, and she releases him.


	10. May 3-19

**This chapter contains the following triggers: eating disorders, graphic descriptions of unhealthy bodies and unhealthy weight management, child endangerment, and animal death. Please go forward with caution.**

* * *

There's a bit of a lust-fueled delay between hearing her words and understanding the meaning of them, and when it happens, Emma's already slipped off the counter and around him. "Something we _both_-" Killian stutters, whirling in time to see her pass through the doorway.

His first emotion is anger, quickly replaced by guilt and then frustration, trailing off with a healthy dose of remorse for his initial anger. He drags his hands up and down his face, mussing his hair further than the job she's already done on it, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth in some shoddy meditation attempt some therapist or other over the years recommended. If she thought that sort of kiss was something they needed to get _out_ of their systems, he doesn't know if either of them are ready for the raging desire that's replaced it.

He _wants_ her.

And she's rejected him.

'_Not rejected, little brother. Not yet. The boy called for her, and she has responsibilities._' Killian's not sure when his conscience turned into his brother Liam. He _is_ sure he's had more conversations with this Liam than he did when his brother still walked this earth.

_Fuck her responsibilities,_ Killian thinks, and then immediately regrets it.

Liam is unsympathetic. '_Have you really grown so desperate for a shag? There are plenty of willing women around here.'_

Be that as it may, there's something less appealing about his usual one-and-done when Killian's plans for picking up and leaving town aren't coming to fruition anytime soon. This puts a slight damper on his desire for her. He turns again, bracing himself on the counter and exhaling slowly. _It's not them that I want._ Even to his own mind he sounds like a whiny pissant.

'_Stop acting like a spoiled child denied a toy, it's unbecoming.'_

_Why should she turn me away? _She _started it,_ Killian thinks.

He can see the exasperated headshake as Liam says, '_Some days, you are more the _young_er brother you named yourself. Perhaps it's not your 'dashing good looks' and charm that drew her to kiss you. Perhaps she just felt good after winning the pool._'

Killian grinds his teeth together. _If feeling good was what she was after, she could have at least let me fuck her. At least then we _both _could feel good._

Liam's silent judgement and the ringing in Killian's ears brings him out of his thoughts. Hot shame drips through him as he realizes what he's thought. He glances up; there's a window looking out to the farm across from him, a farm he can hardly make out in the dying light of the day. Instead, his own pale, wide-eyed reflection stares back at him from the glass. _Oh, God. I should… leave. Just go. Before I do something really stupid._

'_Implying you haven't already_.' Killian doesn't know when he's forgotten exactly how his brother's laugh sounded, but it bothers him. He knows it's not correct, but he can't recall what it should be instead. There's no one else left to remember it, and he can't even do it properly.

Ducking out now avoids the awkward _well now what_ conversation. It might leave Emma with the wrong impression, but he's willing to bear that cross. He swallows hard at the thought of what she might think of him - what she _must_ think of him now - but the tight shame that makes it hard to breathe refuses to let up. He deserves that. He can't talk about _now whats_ with the taste and feel of her still on him. _Now what_ for him (at this moment) ends in her bed, or the kitchen floor, or out in the damn hayloft for all he cares - and she deserves _better _than that. As much as he wants her, as much as there's a primal need to _have_, the larger part of him doesn't _want_ it to be that way with her.

And he frightens her.

She said as much, moments before everything turned upside down. She's frightened of him, and here he is in her kitchen, his mind flooded with a thousand scenarios of their bodies joining and limbs tangling - he's a hell beast of the first degree, and the shame flames hottest.

He cares about her as a friend first and foremost, and it pains him to think Emma would be afraid of him.

Killian sighs again. He doesn't like complicated and the logistics in his brain are already conflicting. He can feel the headache brewing as he drags his hand down the side of his face. _Leaving. Yes. Good. Gwan, Jones_, he tells himself. His keys are in his pocket; he can collect the dishes another time. Or buy new ones, whichever works better.

As he quietly leaves through the back door, his heart feels empty. Every step of the walk to his truck is a battle against the urge to run back inside and sweep Emma up into his arms and hold her there, ravishing her until Judgement Day. It's been an age since he felt this way about anyone and it makes him anxious. In his experience there's only one way to really drown out this specific taste of a woman: an unhealthy amount of Jameson's finest Irish.

There is one solace to his dilemma, though. The thought makes him smile wistfully.

Unlike the last time he needed this much whisky, at least Emma's still alive.

-/-

"We're trading beds," Emma announces, stretching out on David and Mary Margaret's king-sized bed. Her full-sized one was nice enough, but there's something to be said about this pillow-top. She grins at Mary Margaret's exasperated look. "Come on, you were holding out on me."

"You didn't have to sleep down here," Mary Margaret admonishes.

Emma barks a laugh. "Yeah, okay. And when your kid had a nightmare and also had to ascend the scary stairs to the attic, I wouldn't have heard about that at all."

Mary Margaret smiles, acquiescing. She tosses a few more things from the suitcase into the laundry hamper. Emma rolls onto her side, facing her. "So how was the trip?"

"It was nice," Mary Margaret says. "We haven't had the chance to just… do whatever we wanted for so long. No jobs, no children, just us? Honestly, it was kind of bizarre. To feel kind of normal we met with Regina and her family for dinner on Friday night."

She says the last part with some hesitation, and Emma resists the urge to pry about Henry. Instead she says, "Sounds like a good time. Uneventful is good."

"Yeah." Mary Margaret sets a few toiletries on the dresser. "How were things here? Besides with Leo - you kept us up to speed with him, and thank you for that."

Emma shrugs. "Normal. Phillip came up with reports every day, none of the boys got kicked or tossed off. Everything's well-managed, I checked every day to make sure it was clean. All quiet on the home front."

"And the party?"

Emma rolls onto her back, her arms falling above her head, resisting the urge to sigh in frustration. She definitely doesn't want to talk about what happened after the party and maybe - if she plays her cards right - she can get away with it. "Uneventful, if you don't count me winning the big pot at the end. Victor lost all his money to me, Ruby, and Killian, so that was fun. Not so fun was listening to him whine about it. Elsa and her sister came - have you met Anna before?"

Mary Margaret nods. "When a jock gets excused, we have to go talk to her. She's sweet."

"She's like, psychic," Emma grumbles.

"Ah, the people thing."

Emma grunts an affirmative. She still doesn't know how Anna had gotten her to open up like that. It had taken a few shots of tequila - and then later a heavy dose of guilt - to let Killian into the _tamer_ parts of her past and even he'd had to wait for longer than an hour into their acquaintance for the privilege. Mary Margaret pats Emma's ankle and smiles sympathetically. She glances at Emma sidelong before asking, "And how was Killian?"

Emma isn't blushing. "What do you mean?"

"I mean was he okay with there being other people? I'm assuming you didn't tell him."

Damn her, knowing Emma so well. Emma feels very warm as she responds. "He seemed okay. He was really good with Leo - everyone was really, I need to buy them all fruit baskets or something - and he made this amazing banana nut bread."

"Your favorite," Mary Margaret says, smiling like she knows a secret.

Emma isn't fooled. "I didn't tell him, he just did it."

"Okay."

The room grows quiet, disturbed only by the distant sounds of Leo and David coming back inside from the barns or of Mary Margaret putting things away and muttering to herself about where certain items went. Emma's pretty sure they might have been sacrificed in the Great Pre-Vacation Purge of 2014, but she won't breathe a word. Finally, Mary Margaret sighs and sits heavily on the bed, bouncing slightly. "So, are you going to tell me why you blushed when I brought up Killian, or do I have to guess?"

Emma props herself up on her elbows. "Has anyone told you you're really nosy?"

"Emma, please," Mary Margaret says, fixing her with a scrutinizing look. "My students can hide a secret better than you and they're ten."

Emma frowns. "Nothing happened." Mary Margaret tilts her head disbelievingly. "Nothing happened!" Emma insists several times, but every time she tries to protest, it seems that Mary Margaret's eyes narrow a little further until they're nothing more than dark slits. Finally, Emma falls back onto the bed, sighing in exasperation. She grabs a pillow and holds it over her face. "I kissed him, alright?" she declares, though it's muffled.

"Is that all?" Mary Margaret asks. Emma whips the pillow at Mary Margaret, who promptly returns fire. "I'm serious," she says, combing through her short hair with her fingers.

"_Yes_, that's all," Emma grinds out. She doesn't want to mention how she can _still _feel the intensity and hunger behind that kiss, just enough of each to tease her into craving more. She'd felt it all the way down to her toes, it had rocked her to the core, made her tingle now just thinking of it. The edges between them had blurred as they melted into each other, she hadn't known where he ended and she began and she _liked_ it. And then he'd gone and lifted her up onto the counter like she was weightless and fuck _yes_ she was going to wrap her legs around him and not let him escape, was she nuts?

She feels warm again as Mary Margaret nods. "Okay."

She pointedly doesn't say anything else, and before Emma can be baited David calls up the stairs, "Sweetheart, Belle's here!"

Mary Margaret frowns curiously before heading out. Emma flops back onto the bed for a moment, debates yelling into the pillow, and then just gets up in disgust. She goes downstairs with a vague idea of tossing something together for dinner - she can't destroy boxed macaroni and cheese, can she? Emma can hear Mary Margaret and Belle discussing something quietly in the living room while she digs through the kitchen. Her eyes land on Killian's dishes sitting on the drying rack, cleaned and waiting for her to take them to him. Irritation surges through her.

Of course he'd just up and left without saying anything yesterday. It shouldn't bother her - she's preferred guys not making a big deal in the past, hasn't she? - but it does, and that irritates her further. She shouldn't expect anything - expecting things is what gets someone hurt - but at least 'Goodbye' would do. And he'd left his things here. She'd offered to wash only the bread pan, but the shrimp platter and salad bowl remained as well, and his damn hat had been left on the floor. It currently sat on her nightstand.

Maybe that's why she'd slept in Mary Margaret and David's room last night, sue her.

If Killian wants his stuff back, he has to get it himself. She's no one's errand girl. She has things to do. Family and the farm, and Henry... Another wave of irritation hits, and she gently beats her head against the cupboard door in frustration. Her forehead meets flesh next, and she jumps, looking up to see David. He'd slipped his hand between her head and the wood to catch her. "You okay?"

"Peachy," Emma grumbles, and she whips open the cupboard to grab a box of mac and cheese.

"Yeah, beating yourself over the head is 'peachy'," David quips.

Emma's rough with the cookware, ignoring her brother while he leans against the fridge with his arms crossed, watching and waiting. She knows what he's doing: he thinks if he stands there long enough, she'll open up to him. Worse, he's usually right. She putters around, ignoring his watchful gaze. She decides to get fancy and steam some broccoli to put on top of the macaroni and cheese - let Mary Margaret believe this is how it's been all weekend - while also drawing out the time she's going to let David wait for her.

The record is two hours. She can't see herself holding out that long today.

She's straining the noodles when she finally caves. "How was Henry?" Emma asks quietly. She can feel the desperation for answers creeping into her voice and she hates herself a little bit for it. She wouldn't feel this way if she hadn't pushed - no, it needed saying. She can be disappointed it wasn't well-received, but he had needed someone to say it.

She hears David shift behind her. "Quiet. Kinda down."

"Did they go to the school?"

"Regina mentioned it, yeah. He didn't perk up about it though, which I thought was weird. Are you ready to tell me why you two aren't speaking?" he asks.

In the two weeks since their fight, only Regina - and to an extent Robin - knew the details of why Emma and Henry weren't speaking. David and Mary Margaret knew something had happened, but Emma had pleaded the fifth when pressed for details. Now, she's not so sure it had been the best idea. Creating a safe space for Henry was the goal, had always been the goal, and maybe by excluding people she had accidentally created an instigative space. She's never had to deal with this sort of thing before. Navigating the waters of keeping personal issues private and creating a healing, nurturing environment was trickier than she thought. "Dave, if I ask you something, you have to promise to keep quiet about it," Emma says.

He looks concerned, but nods. Emma takes a deep breath. "What's the worst you've ever seen a jock get?"

David tilts his head. "What do you mean?"

She fixes him with an unamused glare. "You know what I mean."

David clenches his jaw for a moment. This isn't easy to discuss, Emma knows. She wouldn't talk about it if she had to, and maybe that's the whole problem. "Well, that kid who roasted to death in his car in Texas a few years-"

"_No_," Emma implores. "You _personally_, not the stories we all know."

He looks down. For a full minute, she thinks he isn't going to say anything. Then, he looks up at her again with haunted eyes. "New guy, just after Mom died. Had crazy potential, intense focus, worked like magic with his mounts. One of the best jocks I've worked with. But he was practically skeletal. Never saw him eat, when he wasn't riding he was running the oval again and again. I don't have a clue how he managed to run so many miles in one day, not with how he looked.

"He had a little girl. She was his whole world outside of racing. She'd come with him some days during training. She was the sweetest thing," David says.

Emma realizes there's tears in his eyes. Her stomach drops out. "What happened?" she breathes.

He clears his throat. "On their way in one day, he passed out while driving. His body just gave out. Car went into the ditch about half a mile up the road. I'll never forget Grace's face when she came limping up the driveway, forehead cut up and crying because she thought her papa was dead. Hospitalized him right away. Doctors said a man his size and that weight were only ever seen in war zones, or refugee camps. He got better eventually, but he lost Grace. We tried to keep her with us, we didn't want her to go into the system, but the judge ruled it a conflict of interest since Jefferson worked for me. She has a family nearby now. He has visitation a few times a month."

Underneath her bubbling rage at the foster care system and its many ineptitudes, Emma feels shock. Her eyes widen. "Jeff… _My_ Jefferson?"

David nods. "He can't be away from a track, but he can't ride like he used to anymore. You ever notice he doesn't hang out with the others, he's kinda withdrawn?" She nods. She's noticed, but she's also noticed how Victor always tries to bring him around anyway. He'd mentioned trying to bring Jefferson on Saturday. Without fail, every invitation is turned down, but it's extended every time regardless. "He's being treated for depression now, too, but it's slow going. Only thing that keeps him going some days is his daughter."

She doesn't know how she feels. Part of her wishes someone had told her sooner, but she knows how the world works. She wonders if she's ever said anything that might have been insensitive towards Jefferson, but she stops herself from falling down that rabbit hole of potential guilt.

Emma walks over and hugs David tight. His arms go around her easily and she rests her head against his chest. "Help me," she pleads. "Help me make sure that won't be Henry."

"Whatever I can," he promises, and kisses the top of her head.

"Emma, I - oh," Mary Margaret begins, stopping abruptly in the door. Belle's right behind her. "Is everything alright?"

Emma steps away, nodding. Mary Margaret glances between her and David, concern etched on her face. Emma notices her brother and sister-in-law are having one of their silent conversations, so she goes to finish making dinner. Belle cautiously comes to stand near her while she works. "Are you alright, Emma?"

"No. Yes. I don't know," Emma says with a sigh. Belle smiles sympathetically and Emma stirs the cheese mix into the milk. "I'm surprised you're speaking to me."

She glances sidelong at Belle, who inclines her head in acknowledgement. "Well, I can't say my husband didn't deserve it. Believe me, we had a few words about it. But he's promised me that he'll be on his best behavior, and I believe him."

Emma wouldn't trust one of Gold's promises as far as she could throw him, but then, she's not married to him. There has to be a certain level of trust there. "I think as long as we stay out of each other's way, it'll be better for everyone."

Belle nods while Emma mixes in the noodles. "You're probably right. But I did mean what I asked, if you're alright. Either from that night or…" Belle looks over at David and Mary Margaret, who are getting plates and silverware out.

Emma holds out her hand for Belle to see. Her bruises are almost gone now. "Almost healed. And really, punching him more than helped make me feel better about any lies he was spewing. As for that," she says, nodding at David, "Family stuff."

"I see," Belle says.

Emma grabs the big serving bowl and dumps the finished macaroni into it and then the broccoli on top. "You wanna stay for dinner?" she asks.

Belle smiles and accepts.

Dinner passes in an ordinary fashion - for them, anyway, which meant only fifteen minutes of post-dinner cleanup from Leo. After, Belle leaves with a promise to see Mary Margaret tomorrow. "We've been behind in schooling. She was in Argentina, and then between her schedule and mine, we've got work cut out for us getting these guys back on track," Mary Margaret explains later, as she and Emma go down to the stables to turn the horses down for the night.

When Emma goes up to bed, she glares at Killian's hat on the nightstand. Leo's drawings are still taped to it and her heart twinges at the memory of him sitting on the floor, pointing out colors or teasing her nephew. Her fingers itch to pick up the phone and ask if he wants his things back or not - or even what he's doing. She's grown used to their daily text exchange and maybe it bugs her more than she cares to admit that she's missed talking to him a little today.

Instead, she tosses her phone on the floor, too far to reach from the bed, and climbs into bed. She deliberately turns away from the stupid hat after turning out the light. She looks out the window instead, only to be met with disappointment that there are no stars to keep her company in her gloom. The reason why is revealed as she starts to drift to sleep and rain begins to splatter against the window panes.

* * *

The next two weeks are despondent and even the weather matches Emma's mood. As unseasonably warm as April had been, the amount of rain (and the accompanying cold front) that almost continuously pours over Storybrooke is just as abnormal through May. It settles a chill in everyone's bones that refuses to leave, and it sends everyone with sense running for their warm, dry houses. Emma doesn't have much sense these days, though, and the rain only makes her evening walks down to work at the barns miserable. At this point, Emma's fairly certain that even if she had a magic wand she wouldn't be able to scrape all of the mud from her boots and she can't quite remember the last time she's been properly dry.

The few days of feeble sunshine don't improve her mood. Going to work and watching Killian either shield his eyes or wear aviators only feeds the guilt that she still has his things. It's not like they haven't spoken, either, but they…

It's weird. It's very weird and Emma doesn't like it and she knows it's her fault for making it weird but she doesn't know how to unmake that weirdness.

He's civil to her when they meet, pleasant even, but it's not the same as it was B.K. - Before Kiss. The flirtatious edge to his grin is gone, he stays well out of her personal space, and it's _weird_, okay? He doesn't even flirt in his texts anymore - and that's when he texts her back at all. It makes her more anxious and irritated to think maybe he got what he wanted from her, or maybe she was just that bad of a kisser that he wanted nothing more to do with her, or - _God, stop it!_ Emma tells herself one morning, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes until a rainbow of supernovae explodes in her sight.

She's tired of running in circles with herself and she's more tired of being too chicken to confront him about all of this.

"Are you alright?" Elsa asks quietly after one race. "You've been… pensieve all afternoon."

Emma nods, punching up her queue. "I'll get over it."

"I didn't ask that."

Emma glances over, smiling tight-lipped. "It's fine, really. Thanks, Elsa."

Elsa gives her a look that says she doesn't quite believe her but leaves it at that. Emma can only hope she doesn't think to sic Anna on her, because Emma's not quite prepared for that kind of illegal warfare yet. She also really needs to get Killian Jones out of her brain, because there's a lot of other stuff she needs to worry about.

It's raining again - this has to be some kind of record - and the track is better labeled as 'soup' than 'sloppy'. They should have called the day off, but Spencer's a hardheaded asshole. No one wants to lose a few extra million dollars with the wake of post-Derby racing enthusiasm still sweeping the gambling world. So they seal the dirt after every race and hope for the best. A few races have taken several minutes to decide - no one can tell who wears what colors or silks under the mud splatters, even the ones out in front. There have been a few falls - nothing drastic, everyone walked off the field themselves - but Emma's gut twists itself into making her nauseous at every start anyway.

Ruby cuts in with her paddock camera shot and, despite herself, Emma smiles when she sees Killian huddling in the stall. The hood of his rain jacket is a flimsy cover for the downpour outside. She really should just go drop everything off tonight. Get over herself and do it.

She bites the inside of her lip as she watches him pat down Pride of War, his mouth going the whole time. He's probably enacting some Irish winning spell - yes, she's finally looked up what the hell language he's speaking when he flies off into not-English - or whatever other Irish superstition he likes to partake in. Or maybe Pride still just likes to be talked to. (Emma used to talk to him a lot when he was just a foal, shiny and new, and Neal used to tease her that she acted like Pride could actually understand her. She knew better.)

It's raining hard enough that the cameras can barely see through all the water to the starting gate. Emma's steadfast though. "Keep with them as best you can," she says, again and again.

Three furlongs from the finish line, they can see the outline of one horse fall. Emma sucks in a breath so fast it makes her chest hurt - and then another crashes into the first, and then a third. Almost half the field gets stuck in the wreckage, with five either ahead or able to weave around in time to finish. Emma doesn't even realize she's holding her breath until her lungs start to protest. An inquiry goes up immediately after someone crosses the finish line and Emma's eyes go to the rewind boards to see what had happened.

It's worse to watch it more clearly, on the closer camera feeds, but it makes her stomach roll to see the falls in slow motion. The horses and jocks are so caked in rain and mud that she can't even tell who or what caused the accident or was involved. Glancing at the live feed shows more ambulances and horse trailers on the field at one time than she could ever remember seeing before, and Emma has to focus on Arthur's blinking lights to settle down.

It takes ten minutes to clear the oval, but at that point Spencer has already stuck his head in and said the remainder of the day is cancelled. Ruby and Elsa trade wide-eyed looks, and Emma feels sick. There's no announcement as to what anyone's condition is and Emma knows that means it's bad. When she's finished cleaning up, Emma braves the weather to go down to the barn - David will know what happened.

-/-

God, he needs a drink.

Killian's on the couch again, still proper soaked through and not giving a damn about the condition of his furniture, both Si and Am staying a long ways away from him. He needs a drink and there's none to be found in the house, most of it gone two weeks ago in his little binge, the rest sacrificed at intermittent points in the coming weeks for any resurgences in feelings.

The rain's slowing finally.

If he can't drink, he needs a distraction.

His limbs feel heavy as he sits up and slowly looks around for such a thing to distract him from his empty heart. There's a binder on the table - full of charts and notes - one he'd been meaning to return to the Nolans for a few weeks. Killian had been avoiding the chore, though, avoiding another encounter with Emma if he could help it.

It's not that he's wanted to stay away. He's seen the curious and slightly hurt looks on her face with each of their recent interactions and it pains him to be the cause of them. But he decided after his little bingeing experiment that it would be best to keep his distance. He values her friendship and succumbing to his baser desires might be enough to sever that.

However, perhaps as with Humbert's mail, doing a thing he dreads when he can't feel anything at all might be the best plan of action.

The drive is treacherous, with flooding on every other country lane, and it takes at least an hour to get to Shepherd's Point when a normal day would take about twenty minutes. He doesn't feel nervous as he steps up the porch and knocks, though he does wonder at the time and if he's interrupting dinner.

Mary Margaret opens the door with some surprise. "Killian! How nice to see you, what brings you here?"

Killian attempts to smile. "Bringing this back for your husband, ma'am," he explains, holding up the binder.

She lifts an eyebrow. It makes her look uncharacteristically haughty. "It's Mary Margaret, Killian, not Mrs. Nolan or ma'am," she informs him, and he bows his head at the mild reprimand. He glances up to see her expression soften. "David's down at the barn. And Killian -," she says as he turns to go. He looks back. The look she wears now is pure sympathy. "I'm sorry."

The hollowness inside him fills, this time with regret. "Me too, ma - Mary Margaret."

The path to the barns is no less soaked than anything else in this waterlogged world in which they all now live. He tries - and fails - to kick off any excess mud when he gets to the shedrow and silently apologizes to whoever has to clean up the otherwise sparkling aisle. Killian thinks back to the other times he's been here and remembers that the office is at the other end of the aisle.

As he nears the end of the row, a sound makes him pause. Maybe if he weren't so attuned to the normal sounds of a stable he'd miss the quiet sniffling and murmuring coming from the foaling stalls, but Killian has been in more stables than actual houses at this point in his life. He can pick out a human where they don't belong faster than one could say 'Guinness'. He looks around the stall door.

Emma's resting her head against a mare's neck, softly crooning to her and stroking her nose. Emma's face looks blotchy, like she's been crying. Something inside of him twists painfully. "Swan," Killian says hoarsely.

She doesn't even open her eyes. "Jones." She sounds _broken_ and the twisting in his gut worsens.

"You've heard, then."

She nods, her hand not stopping its ministrations - whether it's to sooth herself or the mare, Killian isn't sure. "Pride was a good horse," she says quietly. "He was Neal's first-bred, we were so excited... I was there the day after he was born. He was all knees and jumpy like a rabbit. Neal said if he wasn't a racer, he'd be a good show horse. He might have been right, but Neal didn't waste time with anything but racers."

Killian nods. He'd seen that himself in training, and Pride had been eight then. Emma's hand falls away from the mare's face. She sniffs, rubbing her nose and opening her eyes finally as she turns towards him. They're red-rimmed and bloodshot. "Gold didn't even want to try to rehab him? Not even with what his wife does?" she asks.

Killian shook his head. It's a dreadful thing to cut a beast down in its prime, but the hardened part of him understands why some owners choose to euthanize over a lengthy, costly recovery. "No. Said it's what his son would have done," he murmurs.

Emma sniffs again, a laugh sounding more like a sob escaping her. "A year ago, I would have disagreed, but now I don't even know."

She hugs herself tight and the sight of her - lonely and fragile and desperately craving _something_ \- is what makes him open the stall door and walk in to embrace her. Emma relaxes into him almost immediately, her head fitting against his shoulder and just under his chin like she was made to be there. It takes another minute for her arms to relax and encircle him as well. "I've seen it a hundred times and I'll surely see it a hundred more, but it'll never hurt any less," Killian says into her hair.

He absently runs his fingers through her hair, damp and tangled as it is. "You'd have to be pretty fucked up to not be hurt by it," Emma replies.

"Aye."

She shifts a little, tucking her head further under his chin. He senses she wants to say something more, but is holding back. He remembers the _now what _conversation he's been avoiding for weeks, the attempts to keep her at arms length to prevent them from crossing a line he isn't sure they can come back from, and underneath the numbness and pain he feels worried. If he couldn't have that conversation then, he definitely can't have it right now.

But Emma stays quiet and he doesn't breathe a word about the few new spots of dampness she adds to his shirt.

They'll discuss _now what _later.


	11. May 19 - June 4

**Chapter warnings: underage smoking, witnessing murder/general death talk, rough physical interaction between a minor by an adult, graphic depiction of sex**

* * *

For the first time in weeks, Emma feels warm.

It takes her a while to notice - long after she's finally, _finally_ stopped crying - while Killian is still stroking her hair and holding her and just _being_ there. But she realizes her hands, loosely clutching his shirt, are no longer numb. Her legs, pressed against his in her desperate need for physical affection, don't feel like they're made of cold lead. And somewhere under the dulled pain in her chest she feels _safe_.

This realization makes her take a breath and step out of his hold.

He's watching her with kindness, reaching up and thumbing away the tear tracks still on her face. "You'll be alright, Swan," he tells her softly.

She shakes her head. "No. Well, eventually. It's just hard when… when things leave." The walls of the stall seem to be closing in on her and she takes another deep breath to clear her head. She's cried enough for the dead today.

His fingers still rest against her cheek and they help ground her in the present. He's warm and the pads of his fingers are a little rough from calluses, but it's comforting and she finds herself leaning into his touch. His eyes search hers for a moment, then something shifts in his expression. He hesitates for a moment and then says softly, "After my brother passed - after Milah passed - all I could do was relive that final terrible moment."

Emma jerks her head up, her breath catching in her throat. He'd had a brother? And who was Milah? Killian's hand falls away to his side. "Sometimes I still do, but most days I remember that he and Milah would want me to live in the here and now."

She finds her voice. "You - you saw your brother die?"

He nods, not meeting her eyes. "In Belfast, about ten years gone. I'd invited him to come up, I had a race at Down Royal. My… My Milah, she was there too. We went into the city for pub banter. We weren't paying attention to what neighborhood we were walking into." He rocks back onto his heels, and the silver cross around his neck glints from the overhead lights. "We got mugged, but it went wrong. Liam got stabbed, and Milah she… she would get so _pissed off_ at the slightest things, but this had her in a proper rage." His laugh sounds broken. "She went off on them and she… they knifed her good. She went faster but Liam - Liam held on, I thought he'd make it. We even got to a hospital but by then it was too late." It's her turn to reach out and cup his cheek, her thumb brushing across a thin scar that's slashed across his cheekbone, near his nose. He nods to her unasked question. "I didn't walk away whole from that night."

"You didn't - you didn't need to -"

He reaches up and covers her hand with his, lightly gripping her hand. "I'm aware of what I did and did not need to do, Swan. I just wanted you to know that I know how hard it is when something you love leaves unexpectedly."

Emma remembers the night on the swingset, when he said people who are left behind have a bond. His parents, his brother, and his lover - all dead and gone. She'd had no family until she was fifteen, but she knew familial loss: her foster parents were gone - James when she was seventeen and Ruth had died just after Emma had left for New York. Emma doesn't know what she'd do if she lost David and Mary Margaret and Leo as well.

It's quiet, only the horses making any noise in the barn, and she's not sure how long they stand there. He squeezes her fingers finally and lets go. "Not to change the subject completely, but did you happen to know if your brother is around?"

Emma grimaces. "I don't, sorry. Is it important?"

Killian shakes his head and holds up a binder. "Not particularly, just needed to get out of the house. He lent this to me some time ago and I thought to return it."

_Speaking of returning things…_ Emma smiles, and she's suddenly glad for an excuse to shed her grief for a while. "I actually still have your stuff. Freeloader, making me host _and_ wash up after you."

His face relaxes when he realizes she's teasing. "If I recall correctly, you were doing almost none of the hosting, and poor Miss Adgarssen was in charge of it all." Emma scoffs, pushing him slightly, and he chuckles. "What have I said about shoving me, Swan?"

"Make me," she retorts.

His eyes darken and the atmosphere shifts. Emma swallows hard against the heat that zips through her belly. "Look," she says hastily, "why not just go drop that in his office, and come with me back up to the house?" He tilts his head slightly, questioning her silently, and she's horrified to realize she's blushing. "So I can give you your shit back!" Emma squeaks, and she barely suppresses the urge to slap her hand over her mouth in mortification over how stupidly high-pitched her voice sounds.

Killian, to his credit, holds back any further commentary - or worse, laughter - in favor of ducking out of the stall. Emma takes a moment to compose herself, says her goodbyes to Princess by giving her the last carrot out of her pocket, and she meets Killian in the aisle. "Not there," he tells her, referring to David. "Who's the fine lady here? We weren't properly introduced."

He gestures to Princess. Emma smiles wryly. "She's mine."

"And her name?"

Emma starts walking. Killian follows at an easy pace, his hands tucked into his pockets. She decides to just get it over with. "Remember that when you buy a horse, you're stuck with their registered name."

"And most owners give out nicknames, but go on."

She elbows him. He takes his hand out of his pocket, snakes it around her arm, and traps her against his side as he slips his hand back into the pocket. Emma inhales sharply. _Don't be so stupid_, she thinks. _It's just his arm. It's nothing._ They fall into synchronized steps. "_Anyway_," she says, pretending she's a normal person with a regular pulse, "knowing that means you're not allowed to laugh. Because she's mine and I will kick your ass if you do."

He grins down at her. "Aye, Swan, and they say the Irish will talk a person to death. Get on with it before I'm old and gray."

"Her name's Enchanted Princess."

He makes a sort of choking noise and Emma resists the urge to punch him in the gut - barely. "I said no laughing! We call her Princess."

He clears his throat several times - one or two of them sounds suspiciously like laughter. She tries to elbow him again, but he's got her pinned against him pretty good. "A lovely name, to be sure," Killian finally wheezes.

"Shut up, Jones."

The rain has stopped at some point since she came down to brood and mourn in the barn, but the mud still squelches under their boots on the long path back to the house. They ditch their footwear in the mud room to save themselves from Mary Margaret's wrath. He follows her into the kitchen, where Emma retrieves the bowl, tray, and pan from where she'd hidden them on top of the fridge. "One more thing, hang on," she says, and she hurries up the stairs.

His hat is still on the night stand in her room, still taunting her, but retrieving it now is like lifting a weight from her chest. She fingers the brim for a moment, then heads back downstairs. She holds it up triumphantly when she re-enters the kitchen. The corner of Killian's mouth twitches when she places it on his head. "You kept the drawings on," he notes, the one on the left hanging slightly over his face.

She wants to move it to see him better. Instead, Emma hooks her thumbs through her belt loops to keep her hands in place. She doesn't know why she's feeling so handsy today. "Leo would have been heartbroken if I didn't."

"Well then, tell the lad I'll treasure them."

Emma's smile falters. He sounds so final and she doesn't like it, she doesn't like the way the words make her stomach turn to lead. She's so _done_ with final today. _You can tell him yourself_, she wants to say, but the words get stuck in her throat. As he turns to go, she blurts out, "About… Derby Day." She can see his shoulders tense. He's avoiding it and it makes her feel anxious and a little bit queasy because it's _weird _and she _hates_ it. "If that… if I - I mean, if you didn't," she stutters, and he isn't moving, waiting for her to spit it out. She sighs heavily. "I'm sorry, okay? I made things weird between us and I'm sorry."

Killian turns to her, looking her over with a curious expression. Emma resists the urge to take a step back under his mild scrutiny. "Don't be sorry, Emma," he tells her, and hope - confusion? relief? - flares in her chest. His smile is lopsided and it makes her warm all over again. "I'm not."

"Then why -" Emma starts, but he shakes his head, scratching behind his ear. _He's nervous_, she realizes. Maybe she understands _why_. "Then… we're okay? You and me, we're good?"

"We're good, Emma," Killian tells her.

He's looking down at her; his eyes keep flicking down to her lips and she wonders for a fleeting moment if he's going to kiss her. They're closer now. She breathes in his scent - rain and horses and something that makes her think of the ocean. His tongue is tracing the inside of his lip, but then his smile falters and he's taking a step away. Killian's eyes don't meet hers. "I need to go," he says softly. "We have - there's things we need to do now that..."

Right. Pride is gone. Emma feels the weight of grief pulling at her again. The brief reprieve had been nice, but it's time to return to reality. "Yeah. Okay. I'll see you, then."

"See you around, Swan."

She watches him leave from the window, mud splashing up over the tires of his truck. She's not sure why she has this feeling that she should be going after him, or why she feels a twinge of regret that he didn't kiss her after all.

-/-

They see each other more infrequently than Killian would prefer over the next few weeks. It's nothing personal, life works in that way sometimes. Emma has a radiant smile for him when he does see her, and every time he wonders why he's resisting her so much. And then Killian will text her something witty and get a wittier response and then he remembers why: he _likes_ Emma Swan, he doesn't want to subject her to his usual patterns. One-and-done, don't let anyone get too close.

As May fades into June, Killian realizes that he has another problem on his hands: Henry.

The lad's work ethic is as solid as ever. Perhaps _too_ strong, however, as Killian has more than once in the last few weeks found Henry asleep in the tack room or up in the hayloft. Killian remembers all too well the desire to fall asleep where he stood when he was a teenager but this is getting out of hand. And now, when he has chores to give Henry, he can't find the lad anywhere.

Killian climbs up to the hayloft briefly, then searches the tack room. He checks every stall and is on his way to his office when he smells smoke. His heart seizes up until he identifies the scent as burning _tobacco_ and not burning hay or wood.

One of the scragglier mousers glowers at him from atop a hay bale as he storms outside, following his nose towards the source of the scent. He's fairly certain that in seven months he's never caught any of his staff smoking on property - they all know the dangers even an ember can pose to a stable. The rules are clear: smoke on your own time. Even Killian's occasional dalliance is kept to the porch.

Killian rounds the corner and snaps at the sight he sees: he grabs Henry roughly by the back of his shirt, hauling the lad away from the shedrow and ignoring Henry's coughs and protests. "You keep that damn thing between your fingers or you'll have triple the hell to pay," Killian snarls as he practically drags Henry up to the house.

"I wasn't gonna smoke the whole thing!"

Killian doesn't even dignify the ridiculous statement with a response. He marches Henry onto the porch, letting him go with a push. Henry drops the cigarette as he stumbles over his own feet. Killian snatches it up and crushes it into the ashtray he keeps on the table. "What the _hell _do you think you're doing, boy?" Killian demands, rounding on Henry. There's a voice that sounds like Liam telling Killian he sounds an awful lot like some of his old trainers, but the larger part of him says Henry needs this more than Killian needs to be kind.

The lad stares up at him sullenly. "You can't yell at me. You're not my dad. You're not even my _step_-dad. You're just the help."

Killian's eyebrows go up. "The _help_," he repeats slowly. "Is that how your sodding rich boy head sees things now?" He watches Henry closely, looking for any kind of response but teenage attitude. "You must be dafter than I thought, boy. Well, let me educate you on something." Killian crouches down to meet him at eye level. "Your mother may employ me, but _you_ do not. _You _are _my_ employee, and _my_ word is law around here. My rules exist for damn good reasons and now I see I've been far too lenient on letting you break them."

"I'm not your employee. You don't pay me."

"I pay you as every master has paid his apprentice since the dawn of time: with experience," Killian snaps. "You lurk about here like you own the place, and you _don't_. You're here to learn, not feck around like an eejit. I catch you smoking or sleeping in the stables again and you're out on your ear, and _you_ get to explain to Regina why her son is banned from her stables." He's breathing heavily out of his nose.

Henry looks away. "Fine," he mutters.

Killian softens a bit. It wasn't all that long ago that he'd been Henry's age and caught with his first smoke. "Why the devil were you smoking anyway?"

Henry's stubbornly silent for a bit, but Killian has all the time in the world. Finally, the lad mumbles, "I stole it out of Will's jacket. I read somewhere that smoking makes you lose your appetite."

Killian breathes out slowly. He recalls their conversation after the Derby, when Henry had come back full of plans and ideas about the academy. "And you still want to go to Kentucky."

"Yeah."

Killian mumbles some curses under his breath. "Boy, you keep this up and you'll have more to worry about than size," he says aloud. "Trust me on that. You need to be in _shape_ to handle our beasts, Henry, not just small. Go run the oval a few times if you feel the need."

Killian claps Henry on the shoulder roughly, not unlike how Liam used to do in lieu of physical affection. The lad shrugs him off, but Killian can tell that the scowl on his face is more for show than anything else. Killian watches as Henry considers the track for a long while, the lad's expression changing little by little from bitter contemplation to determination. Finally, Henry trudges down the stairs towards the oval. Killian feels no small amount of apprehension as he goes, wondering if he's made the situation better or worse. His fingers twitch with the urge to do _something_ else, so he pulls his phone out of his pocket.

Neither Regina nor Robin answer his calls, which is odd because it's a Sunday. He knows Robin isn't leaving for his research trip for a few weeks, and Regina… well, she _is_ the type to work on a Sunday if she needed to, but Killian doubts that's the case. Still, if they're otherwise occupied, he doesn't want to bother them. Killian hesitates for a moment, his finger hovering over the button of his next contact. He knows she and the lad aren't on the best of terms, but… He shakes his head and then hits the button for Emma.

She answers promptly, with some confusion - understandable, as they've never actually called one another. "Hey, Killian. What's going on?"

"It's Henry," Killian says, and then he winces at the wording. "Not… It's been a long day. I think someone just needs to take him home, and his parents aren't around."

Emma's quiet. He imagines she's probably at home, sitting on the couch in the living room. Perhaps Leo is playing with his toys on the floor, or she's alone and tucked up with a book. "Does he know I'm coming?"

"No."

She sighs, and in his mind he sees her dragging her fingers through her hair. "Okay. Is he alright?"

"I don't know how to answer that."

He envisions the way she closes her eyes when she's exasperated. Killian doesn't know exactly why things are so strained between Emma and Henry, only that it has something to do with Henry leaving for schooling and neither one will divulge more than that. "Okay," Emma says finally. "I'll be there in half an hour. Don't tell him I'm coming."

She's there in twenty minutes.

He's in his office working on charts when she knocks. "Hey," Emma says, leaning against the doorframe. He lifts his eyes to her and his eyebrows go up. She's oddly alluring in a faded t-shirt and those ratty jeans from several weeks ago. Her hair is piled up on her head in a topknot, long strands of blonde hair escaping to frame her face. "Where is he?"

Killian leans back in his chair, throwing his pencil down. He braces his hands on his head, the picture of nonchalance to mask his interest in her. "On the oval, running laps."

Her brow furrows. His fingers itch to reach out and smooth the wrinkle away, and he shoos the thought away. "With his own feet?" Emma asks.

"Aye."

"Why?"

His jaw clenches. It's a delicate position he's in and he's not sure how to move forward. "Best ask him that, love. It's not my story to tell."

Her frown deepens as she crosses her arms over her chest, but she doesn't push it. He hates to cause her distress, but it's the truth. She gives the tiniest shake of her head, then says, "Thank you for calling me."

"Of course, Swan. You worry about him," Killian states.

She nods. He wants her to come over to his desk, perch on the corner of it, and talk to him about why the crease between her brows won't go away. That's new, too. It's been a long time since he's cared about anyone's problem but his own - something he's noticing more often the longer he stays here. But Emma stays where she is, angled against the doorframe, watching the floor carefully. "He's never been like this before… Then again," she amends, inclining her head, "he's never been fifteen before and I've never had to deal with a fifteen year-old. God knows _I_ wasn't easy to deal with when I was his age…"

Killian chuckles. She's hardly easy to deal with _now_ when she puts her mind to it. "Bit of a spitfire, were you?"

Emma smiles wryly. "If you want to be nice about it." She perks up and twists, looking down the aisle, and lifts her hand in a casual wave. "Henry's coming," she says to Killian. "I'd better head him off before he tries running away from me, but I think at this point I could catch him."

He smiles, but it's weak. He doesn't want her to go, even though this is entirely the reason he called her here in the first place. He's missed talking with her more than he's realized. She returns his smile - was that a wink? - and starts to leave. Before he can stop himself, Killian blurts out, "Wednesday."

Emma pauses just outside the door and glances at him over her shoulder. "It's a day that ends in 'y'. What about it?"

He snorts. "I just wondered… No, I wanted to _ask_ you if you'd come riding with me. If you wanted to."

Emma arches an eyebrow. Killian doesn't blame her - even _he_ thinks he's talking too much. "Riding," she repeats slowly.

It's stupid to feel nervous about this, but she's looking at him like he's grown a second head. It's not a feeling he's used to. "Yes, it's a thing you mentioned you do."

"Sometimes."

"Can Wednesday be one of your sometimes?"

Emma glances forwards. Killian can hear Henry's footsteps now and his own heart is pounding in his chest waiting for _some_ kind of answer and this is _ridiculous_, he's like a fecking _schoolboy_. She looks back once, briefly, and answers. "Maybe."

* * *

And damn if she doesn't show up.

It's early in the afternoon, and Killian's with Will and one of Gold's yearlings in a paddock when he hears Emma hail them. She's walking down the yard, waving. Will nudges him with a wicked grin, and Killian cuffs him up the back of the head in response. "Hi Will," Emma says as she reaches the fence. She leans on it, and Killian drinks in the sight of her: dark fitted jeans and old riding boots. Though it's June now, she's wearing a light jacket against the threat of rain - again - overhead.

"Hullo Emma," Will says with a grin.

Killian makes a face as Will lets the lead line slack and Scamp goes to inspect Emma's outstretched hand. "What am I, chopped liver?" Killian asks.

"Oh, you're here too," Emma teases, scratching between Scamp's ears.

"See if I invite you over again."

"He's friendly," she comments as Scamp lips her jacket sleeve.

"He's got some high-brow fancy name, being Gold's an' all, but we call 'im Scamp," Will explains. "He's a right heartbreaker, this one."

Emma laughs as Scamp headbutts her. "I can see that."

Killian nods at the lead line in Will's hand. "You've got things covered here, mate, I have business to attend to."

He hops the fence as Will remarks, "Oh _that's_ what they're calling it these days."

Killian resists the urge to flip the bird or go back and knock Will about again, but just barely. He'll have to come up with some sort of punishment for the insubordination. Instead of retaliation, he leads Emma to the shedrow. "So you really meant 'riding'," she says as they grab all manner of tack.

"Course I did, love. Don't let Will's filthy remarks get to you," Killian tells her with a grunt as he hefts a saddle.

She raises an eyebrow at that, silently calling him out on that, and he grins in response.

They take Regina's horses out - they've been needing proper exercise for a few days now, all cooped up in the rain as they've been. Emma swears she can handle Blackheart and Killian believes her. He takes Bluff, who is feeling more ornery than usual and makes saddling up difficult. As a result Emma is already mounted and taking Blackheart in circles by the time Killian leads Bluff out.

She does know how to ride, and he's not going to lie and say the sight of her - hair secured in a low ponytail under her helmet, posting like she's done it her whole life - doesn't stir something in him. She grins and brings Blackheart to a halt while Killian leads Bluff to the mounting block. "Slowpoke," she chirps.

"Tell that to this one," Killian grunts, swinging himself up and into the saddle.

Emma brings Blackheart close enough to gossip and reaches over to pat Bluff on the neck. "He's just grumpy."

Killian snorts. 'Grumpy' just about sums it up. He wheels Bluff around and sets off, calling over his shoulder, "Do you know, I've all this land and haven't seen more than a third of it?"

Emma catches up fast. "Well, good thing you invited a tour guide," she teases, and she kicks Blackheart into a canter. Killian lets out a startled laugh and urges Bluff to follow.

He doesn't remember feeling this light in ages as they cross the fields and trade lighter stories from their pasts. He learns she hadn't even seen a horse in person until she'd gone to live with the Nolans, and she smiles in a shyly proud way when he tells her it doesn't show in the least. He tells her about some of his misspent youth - sleeping in haylofts to keep an apprenticeship, being hauled off by Liam when he'd missed one too many dinners at home, too many nights awake with colicky or laboring mares.

She's also not kidding when she claims to be a tour guide as they leave the rolling fields for the few acres of forest that also belong to the farm. She points out bramble thatches deer use for homes, trees she's spotted baby bears in before, and a broad creek (likely shallower when it hasn't rained for weeks on end) the horses can use for drinking water. Near the swollen creek, there's a fire circle - covered in leaves and some stones knocked away from disuse - and rotted out logs bordering it that she stares at for a long moment while they water the horses and rest their backs. "Seems a shame to let a pretty spot go to waste," he comments, and kneels to fix the stones.

Emma shakes her head. "No, let's leave it." She wraps Blackheart's reins around her hand and leads him away from the water.

Killian wants to ask about the ghosts that inhabit these spots, but he doesn't want to drudge up any painful memories for her. It's been a fine day and the rain has held off so far. She's been happy almost the whole day and he doesn't wish to spoil her mood. Emma looks up at him now - he's surreptitiously watching her over the saddle he's readjusting - and she smiles in a way he thinks is content. "This is nice," she says.

Killian returns the grin. "It has been, hasn't it?"

She ducks down and checks Blackheart's hooves for stones. "I don't know what I expected, but this is way better."

He scoffs. "Oh, thanks."

"I meant it nicely!"

He hauls himself back up into the saddle, and after a moment she follows suit. "You really know how to cut a man twelve ways from Sunday, Swan."

She smirks, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder. "I try."

She kicks Blackheart into a trot, posting again, and he has to remind himself to keep his eyes above her waist as he follows her through the woods. Killian Jones is no saint, though - his eyes do wander lower as they take the meandering path back to the farm. Watching her hips roll with the trot is mesmerising and he's rediscovering that riding with an erection isn't the craic it could be.

Emma glances back at him after a few minutes and she's still smirking - and it's then that he realizes she's doing it on purpose.

_Minx_.

The rain begins the moment they exit the woods - not in a drizzle but in a downpour, as if the angels above all decided to empty their bathwater at once. Emma shrieks as they're immediately drenched and Killian starts to laugh even as his teeth clack together, because even though it's June it's still _spring_ and this is _Maine_ and it's _cold_.

He fears for their lives as they cross the fields at a canter, hoping there are no gopher holes or patches for fragile horse legs to get caught in. But they make it back in one piece - half frozen but whole - and immediately set to task of caring for the horses. They leave the tack out to dry - here's Will's punishment, caring for the wet leather, a task that Killian gleefully calls down the row to the extra equipment room where he knows Will and the other stable hands are working (Will's indignant "_Oi_! Bloody hell!" is satisfaction enough) - and rub down Bluff and Blackheart as best they can.

Killian's fingers are numb as he grooms out the worst of Bluff's tangles. A proper grooming can come later that night, after feeding, but he's drier now and that's the important part. Emma appears to have reached the same conclusion, as she's coming out of Blackheart's stall, shivering and rubbing her hands together. "I should go," she says, her teeth chattering.

He glances outside and the rain's coming down hard. He can't even see the house. "Not in this," he insists. "You'll be in a ditch and I'll feel responsible. Come up to the house, have a cuppa, and wait for it to slow."

"I'll get everything wet," Emma says, looking down at herself.

Killian raised an eyebrow. "And I won't? Don't be thick. Come on, Swan."

He grabs her hand as they race up to the house, pulling her along after him. They're both shivering as they enter the house through the back way and shed wet, muddy boots, and Killian goes off in search of towels. He returns to see her hugging herself tight, looking around the kitchen curiously. "Here," he says, draping one around her and taking the other to his hair.

She nods her thanks. One of the cats yowls at him for attention and he looks for the source. Am lingers in the doorway, looking at him like he's gone mad for getting so wet. "I don't think you want to come near me, _a chroí_."

Emma's squeezing the water from her ponytail. "You have a cat?" she asks.

"Two, actually. Pesky things," he adds affectionately.

She nods, a curious look on her face. "Didn't picture you as a cat person."

God, he hates the way wet clothes cling to him. He shrugs out of his working shirt with some difficulty - though what good it does, he's not sure, because even his t-shirt underneath is soaked. He tosses it through the doorway that leads to the laundry, missing the way Emma's paused in drying her hair. "Funny thing about barns, they've loads of cats," he explains, draping his towel over his shoulders. "Mouse catchers, see, for the grain. It's the same everywhere, and it's a familiar sight. Comforting. They tend to grow on a man after a while, and my troublemakers are my only company sometimes. They're my home when I've got none otherwise."

It's the cold and the damp making him poetic, but Emma's looking at him like he's flipped on a lightswitch. Then she shivers violently. "_Shit_." She wraps herself up but it doesn't help stop her shakes. "This is stupid, but do you… fuck. Can I borrow something to wear? I really can't afford to get sick right now," she says.

"Tell you what, darling, upstairs there's a shower. Warm yourself, I'll leave you something outside the door."

She side-eyes him and even he sees this whole situation as something ripped from a trashy romance novel. "No funny business?"

He holds up his hand. "Strike me down if I lie."

It takes her another five seconds before she's bolting for the stairs. The cold really _is_ getting to him that he's not making any allusions to anything, but he doesn't have time to think about that. He pilfers through his laundry - thank God he thought to actually complete that chore the other day - for a shirt and suitable trousers for her. Killian hopes she doesn't read too much into it that they're his pyjamas. He leaves them outside the door of the guest bathroom, then heads into his own room and the master bath.

He keeps it brief, hot enough to melt the chill from settling into his bones. He scrubs a bit at the mud under his fingernails, but he knows he'll be down at the stables later again that night and a full shower is pointless.

When he turns the water off, he doesn't hear the other shower running. He mutters to himself to keep away the vision of Emma drenching herself in his shower, standing naked in his bathroom - _fuck_, she was going to put on _his_ _clothes_.

This was all a terrible idea.

He gets dressed (as much as he'd like to wear lounging clothes as well, he has work to do in the evening and it's significantly harder to hide his arousal in anything but proper trousers) and goes back downstairs. Emma's coming out of the laundry room as he enters the kitchen and she jumps. "_God_, you scared me!" she exclaims. "Geez, get one of those bell collars or something."

He grins, ignoring the racing of his heart as he took in the vision of his oversized clothes on her. "You're thinking of Si and Am, love, and I can assure you they're quite well-trained in the art of stealth."

"Whatever," Emma grumbles, finger-combing her wet hair. "I threw my stuff in the dryer, if that's okay. Hopefully by the time they're done it'll have stopped raining."

"We'll see. I believe, in the meantime, I offered a cup of tea," he says, and goes to fill the kettle.

She sits at the table, watching him putter about the familiar pattern of tea making. It doesn't take long and he definitely doesn't need to be watching for the kettle to boil, but it's a distraction from looking at her in his shirt and his pyjama bottoms at his table and thinking about how he could possibly get used to seeing her like that every day for the rest of his life.

Emma smiles gratefully when he presents her with a mug. Killian tries not to wince much as she does ghastly things like add too much honey, milk, and a bit of sugar to her tea - something she sees and promptly makes a face at him about. "I need to do _something_ to make this taste good," she teases.

"Barbarian Yank," he retorts, and drinks his tea - _black_, thank you very much.

They're quiet, the rain beating on the house and the hum of the dryer and the sounds of tea being drunk providing a pleasant background noise. She's staring out the window, watching the raindrops slide down the glass, masking the farm beyond. He's watching the way she cradles her mug with both hands like she's afraid it'll be taken from her at any moment, or perhaps she's just soaking in the warmth still.

He could definitely get used to seeing her like this every day.

Shit.

"Emma," Killian says quietly, setting his mug down.

She looks over at him, tearing her gaze away from the window. Her hair's still damp and he needs to say something else - _do _something else - before he decides to do something stupid like buy a damn hair dryer to keep in the house for her, because she's _not _going to be staying here or showering here anymore or anything of the sort. Maybe she was right, maybe they needed to get something out of their systems, and then maybe afterwards this - this _domesticity_ he was feeling would _bugger the hell off_. "Emma, I'm going to kiss you now," he says, getting to his feet.

She's looking up at him with wide, curious - hopeful? - eyes. "Are you?"

He's standing over her now. "If you'll permit it."

If she says no, he'll walk away. He won't like it, but he will, and he'll drown himself in a barrel of whisky to get her out of his brain. She tilts her head, considering. "What happened to no funny business?"

"I'm not laughing, love."

She _has_ to be able to hear his heart thumping in his chest. After a long, long moment - days long, perhaps weeks - she stands up. "Okay," she whispers, lifting her head to meet his.

This kiss differs from their first in many ways.

He knows her. He knows her lips against his - this soft caress of skin, they have all the time in the world to exist here and now together - he knows the sigh she breathes as she fits her body against his, the upward curve of her lips as she feels his desire pressing into her stomach. He knows how her fingers feel in his hair, knows the curve of her hips under his hands.

But there's newness too, like when her hands slide down his body and grip his waist. When his hands wander up her back and feel nothing. He bites back a moan at the revelation that she isn't wearing a bra. He feels her smirking against him moments before she bites his lip and he opens for her. He knows the feel of her tongue, but he's not expecting the way her hands slide under his shirt, her fingers flexing and dancing across his skin and her nails tracing patterns that send gooseflesh rippling down his back. "Don't start something you don't intend to finish, Swan," he murmurs against her lips, chasing her for more.

"Please," she mumbles, nipping at him again. Emma glances up at him and through his haze he sees a wicked challenge in her eye. "You couldn't handle it."

Killian slides his hands back down her body, enjoying her little motions against him in response. He grips her hips tight and pulls her firmly against him. She breathes in sharply. "Perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it," he challenges.

She pulls back slightly, her eyes searching his, her lips pink and parted slightly. Something like triumph lights in her eyes, the corners of her lips lifting for a beat, before she pulls them together again. Her mouth is hot and harsh and _wanting_, and _God_ \- "Bedroom," he gasps after a moment, because his table isn't all that sturdy and he can't remember the last time he bothered to clean the floor.

Emma releases him. She takes his hand and practically drags him up the stairs, determination in her every step. In his bedroom, he kicks the door shut behind them and pulls her against him, her back flush against his front. He rolls his hips into her arse and she moans appreciatively at the feel of his erection pressing against her. She sighs as he sweeps her hair to the side, leaving searing kisses along the curve of her neck as his other hand slips under her (his) shirt. He wants _more_, needs _more_, this tease of skin isn't _enough_ -

She grips the ends of the shirt and steps away, pulling it over her head and leaving him breathless at the reveal of bare skin. "I wanted to do that," Killian manages to say as she glances at him over her shoulder.

_Seductress_.

"Shut up," she commands. She lays herself across his bed, his pants sitting indecently low on her hips. Her breasts are half-hidden by her hair, the peaks already at attention from the slight chill in the room.

He swallows hard and resists the urge to pin her to the bed and worship her chest until she's crying her release. "What if I have more things to say?"

"I can think of some better things you can do with your mouth," Emma says.

She actually crooks her finger at him. Killian pulls his own shirt off, pride swelling in his chest when he sees the appreciative look she's sweeping down his body. He climbs into bed, half-covering her body with his own, relishing at the skin contact. "Now, then. What other things would you have me do?" he murmurs.

She brings them together again in a kiss that leaves him dizzy and a fire burning in his belly. She opens to him, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as she takes his hand and guides it under her (his) pants. Her skin is warm and soft against his work-roughened fingers, pebbled with goosebumps. He groans when she slips his fingers between her folds - she's slick with need already, jutting up against his hand when his thumb brushes against her clit. "Sensitive," he murmurs, capturing her bottom lip between his teeth.

"Shut up," she breathes, and there's more than a hint of need powering it that makes him chuckle.

He moves down, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the long line of her neck, two of his fingers slowly working their way into her as she thrusts up and grinds against him. "That's a good girl," he says, pausing to suck a bruise on her collarbone. "Fuck yourself on my fingers, love."

"Shut up, shut _up_," she whines, jutting up at a new angle, taking him in deeper.

He gets the idea, changing how he enters her, and she cries out in relief as he renews his efforts, slipping in and out of her more quickly, caressing the spot that makes her gasp loudest. There might be words in the nonsense she spills, perhaps a 'yes' and 'right there, _fuck_', but she breaks when he bows his head over her breasts. Her skin is smooth, pliable, growing redder and redder from his beard and teeth and lips. Her head's thrown back, breaths coming short and quick, and he resists the urge to sink his teeth into the column of her throat.

His tongue swirls around her dusky peaks - never spending too much time on one, lest the other feel neglected - bringing them to full attention. She's an impatient lass, though. Her fingers thread through his hair and push him down to focus on just one and he sucks greedily. She whines deep in her throat, her hand keeping his head in one place as he slides a third finger into her.

Then Emma's convulsing underneath and around him and his fingers are coated in her, her grip on his hair wonderfully tight, his name a prayer on her lips.

She's trying to breathe again when he brings his fingers to his lips, sucking her juices from him like they're his last meal. Her skin is flushed, her chest heaving, and _God in heaven _he wants to see her like this every day for the rest of his life.

Emma starts to sit up, her hands going to his waistband, but Killian stops her with a gentle hand. "Not yet." He slides off the bed, sitting on the floor, and grips her legs. "Lie back, Emma."

"Killian, what -" God, she even _sounds_ wrecked.

"Lift your hips a bit, Swan, there's a girl," he tells her, sliding the rest of her coverings off and leaving her deliciously bare and spread out on his bed.

She sucks in a breath as what he's about to do hits her and it makes him pause. "Is this alright?" he asks.

Emma lifts her head. Her eyes are hooded and her hair's a glorious mess and he _aches_ with his want for her. "Yeah, it's just - I'm kind of a one-and-done girl, so don't get too worked up when I don't come again."

He raises an eyebrow, another emotion emerging from the lust: anger. Not at her - the _boys_ in her life before this that made her think she's incapable of flying higher and higher. ("So don't get too worked up when I don't come again." - had someone _done_ that? Been angry with her because _they'd_ done _her_ injustice?) The boys who made her think she's only good for being _used_ for their own pleasure. "I won't," he tells her instead - not because it won't happen, but because he has a feeling it won't take her long to reach her peak again.

She sighs at the scrape of his beard against her thighs, whimpers when he tastes her. He lifts her legs over his shoulders, giving him a better angle as he laps at her sensitive flesh. She makes appreciative noises above him, but they're not the _right _appreciative noises. It only makes him more determined. His teeth graze lightly over her swollen nub and she yelps, throwing her hand over her mouth in surprise. He pauses. "Good or bad?" Killian asks.

"Weird? Different?" Emma says, unsure.

His tongue circles her this time, soothing the hurt he'd caused. He chuckles when she gasps - he's pushing his fingers inside of her again, crooking his fingers against her walls as he presses his tongue against her clit. Her legs tighten around him and he knows he's got her. "Fuck, what _even_ -" she moans, biting off her sentence with a cry.

Her hand goes over her mouth again and Killian pauses. "Hand away, Swan, I want to hear you," he growls. She shakes her head as he swipes his tongue along her slit, her legs squeezing against him as she moans. "Pleasure yourself, darling," he urges. Emma lifts her head again, her eyes meeting his. He feels like he's about to fall even as he's rooted firmly on the ground. "Trust me, Emma," Killian says softly. "Please."

She hesitates, then nods. Her hands go to her breasts and he resumes his ministrations. He devours her, alternating between fucking her with his fingers and his tongue. When she comes at last, she's screaming, thrusting herself onto his tongue as he licks her clean.

He gently kisses her mound when she finally stills, propping himself up with his hands placed on either side of her to see the result. She's completely wrecked, breathless and shamelessly spread out on his bed. She's beautiful. He grins even as his desire is slowly matched by pure affection. She starts to laugh when he climbs up next to her again. "That's a first," she says.

"We're not done quite yet," he tells her.

Her eyebrows go up. "I don't think I have another one in me."

"I think you'd be surprised at what you can do."

Emma watches him with those curious eyes as he shucks his trousers and pants. He pushes himself up to the head of the bed, reaching into the nightstand drawer for a condom. He stills just as his fingers find the foil packaging - her fingers have found him.

He bites back a groan as her thin fingers wrap themselves around his cock, slowly pumping and making his toes curl. Then her mouth is on him, hot and wet, and - "_Fuck_, Emma," he gasps, head thrown back as she drags her tongue along the underside of his cock. She hums a question as she takes him in again, and it takes every ounce of his willpower not to fist his hand in her hair and move her head for her. He tries to think of anything else except the way she's fucking him with her mouth, taking him in deeper each time until he's - _fuck_, she's grand at deep-throating. "Emma - _God, Emma_ \- Emma, _mhuirnín_, you need to - _seven buggering hells_ \- _a ghrá geal_ stop, you need to - off, now, _please,_" Killian begs.

She releases him with a pop, all feline smugness as she crawls up to meet him. "Was it that bad?" she asks and her voice is sinful.

He can't breathe, let alone come up with words to respond, so he merely shakes his head. She grins and the apples of her cheeks are full and pink as she laughs and he's falling over that edge, completely gone. He holds up the condom. "Do the honors?" Thankfully, she only rolls it onto his cock - he feared she might do it with her mouth, and he _absolutely _wouldn't have lasted through that process. She lifts her eyes to meet his in a silent question, and he grins, shifting a bit. "Hop on."

It's a lovelier sight in person than in his daydreams - Emma Swan hovering above him, her long, tangled hair hanging around her face as one hand presses into his chest and the other positions his cock at her entrance. He's not sure who sighs first when she finally allows him to enter her, sinking over him fully. She's tight and warm and still slick with need if his easy entry was anything to go on. "Is this okay?" she breathes.

It's a ridiculous question. "It's perfect."

Emma flushes, and her nails dig into his chest almost reflexively. He hisses a laugh, which makes her shift on him, which makes both of them gasp.

Slowly, torturously so, she begins to rock. Killian steadies her hips with his hands. Her eyes are closed, the worry line between her brow is back. He reaches up and thumbs it away like he'd wanted to the other day, cupping her face as she opens her eyes again in confusion. "Here and now," he says, rolling his hips up to meet hers. "It's just us here, Emma." She leans down and captures his lips with hers. It's sweet and slow, the meandering heat adding to the fire where their bodies join. They set an easy rhythm, learning how they fit together. The crease comes back and he thinks perhaps she's trying too hard to come again. "Use me," he urges. "Use me how you see fit."

She turns red again, her eyes flicking up to meet his again and he smirks. He lays back, putting his hands behind his head to prove he's just an object for her to fuck. Emma quirks an eyebrow at him once before grinding her hips into his. Her thrusts become shallower, the angle more erratic. It feels good but this isn't about him, he's not getting off on this. She's breathing hard, and she brings his head back up to her breasts, cradling him to her chest as she rides him harder. She whimpers when he sucks hard and releases her nipple with a wet pop, moving to her other breast and giving it the same rough treatment. He laps at her collarbones, the joints where her neck and shoulders meet, sweeping his tongue up to the spot just under her ear that makes her gasp - and then she's shuddering and convulsing around him, this release quieter than her last. He grins and wetly kisses her jaw.

Killian grips her hips and rolls them over. Emma gasps as he hits her insides at a new angle. "_Jesus_, I don't think I can -"

"No," Killian says, and he gets up on his knees, lifting her legs to wrap around him.

He's not done with her just yet. And this time, when she meets his eyes, she nods without any prompting. He grins ruthlessly and begins to thrust into her, his hands sliding up to her waist. Emma hooks her feet together behind his back and uses the position to pull his cock fully inside her. Killian groans softly, picking up the pace. "Come on, Killian," she sighs, her head thrown back.

"Already that close for me?" he grunts. She shakes her head, moaning. He frowns. "Not yet, don't give up on me yet."

His arms circle around her waist and she yelps in surprise as he lifts her up to meet him. His thighs - already sore from the long ride earlier - ache, but he revels in the sight of her looking down at him. She's as glorious as a sunrise with her rosy cheeks and red, puffy lips, her tangled damp hair hanging in a curtain around them. She cups his face in her hands and kisses him, sucking and biting his lower lip at turns as he thrusts up into her. "Emma," Killian murmurs against her lips, "Emma, sweetheart, I'm close."

"Then do it," she says, nipping his jaw.

"No, tell me what you need."

She's panting in time with his thrusts, her breath warm on his ear as she nibbles the shell. "Faster," she whispers. "Fast, I need fast and hard and -"

She breaks off with a squeak as they topple forward. Killian buries his face in the crook of her neck and she clings to him tighter as he drives his cock into her heat. She grunts a little with each impact, whispering "_just like that_" and "_fuck yes_" and then her breath hitches in her throat. "Come on, one more for me," Killian urges. God, he's so close but he _can't_, not yet.

Emma cries out his name and with her to guide him, he lets himself go into that blinding white light of release. She milks every drop out of him, his own orgasm shuddering through him from toes to tip more quietly than her own. "Emma," he breathes into her skin, and kisses the side of her neck.

She's trying to catch her breath, arms and legs and sex still wrapped around him. His muscles burn pleasantly and though he's loathe to untangle himself from her, he really should go clean up. She whimpers as he pulls out of her. "Come back," she pleads, releasing her hold on him anyway.

"In a tick, love," he promises.

In the bathroom, Killian hisses as he pulls the condom off and pitches it in the bin. The washcloth is also unpleasant, but being covered in his own come is more unpleasant. When he comes back, Emma has unmade the bed properly and burrowed under the blankets. She smiles up at him as he slips under the covers. "Hi," she whispers, sliding closer to him.

"Hello, beautiful."

The rain still falls, but from the noise he can tell its started to let up. It's an afternoon made to be spent in bed with a beautiful woman. Emma is curled up against his side, his arm around her and he's idly playing with her hair. She's half-asleep by now, her fingers combing through the hair on his chest, one leg thrown over his. He glances down at her. She wears four orgasms well and should more often. "So, one-and-done, eh?"

She smacks him on the chest, but it's a half-hearted effort and she's giggling. "Shut up."

"Aye, and I haven't heard that today in the least."

Emma shifts in his embrace, pressing herself more firmly against him. "You love it," she mumbles, sleep taking hold of her voice and body.

His stomach drops out as he realizes that perhaps he does.

_Fuck_.


	12. June 4-5

**The NSFW version of this story is available on AO3. Same title, same username.**

* * *

The light's different when Emma opens her eyes. Her window is above her bed, not across from it. She's warm, wrapped in blankets that have a heady masculine scent, and her body aches pleasantly. She sits up slowly, holding the blankets to her naked chest and looks around the room. Memory returns and she feels her face warm even as she smiles.

_Bodies wrapped around each other, lips teasing skin, a long and hard drag sending her to the stars_.

She doesn't want to think about how nice it felt to fall asleep in his arms, or the soothing way he'd played with her hair, or even the tenderness in his eyes when she'd been in his lap and he had almost begged her to tell him how to please her one more time. Maybe she's been out of the game a little too long, but she can't remember if any of the handful of men she'd gone out with ever looked at or treated her that way before. Maybe Neal or Walsh had, once upon a time, but her fairy tales always had tragic endings.

No romantic, ride-into-the-sunset happily ever afters for Emma Swan.

The sound of the door opening brings her out of these thoughts she doesn't want to think. Her head snaps up as Killian looks in almost cautiously. He's already dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. "You're awake," he says softly.

"Yeah, looks like it." Her voice is husky from sleep and maybe a little bit from how many times he'd made her scream his name. "How long was I out?"

It's hard to see his face clearly in the dimming light, but she can hear the smile in his voice, "Little more than an hour, _mhuirnín_. And your phone has been a bit busy."

He comes in to drop her dry clothes on the bed and tosses her phone her way. Emma refuses to get flustered over Killian taking her clothes out of the dryer for her. _You fucked him already, seeing your old granny panties can't screw that possibility up now_, she tells herself as she flicks through at least ten texts and five missed calls from David and Mary Margaret. The bed dips behind her as he sits. "Is everything alright?" he asks.

"Overprotective family. Current assumption is I'm either dead on the side of the road or you've murdered me, chopped me into little pieces, and hid them in the woods," Emma says wryly and calls Mary Margaret back.

She sucks in a breath when she feels his hand on her back and his fingers start to trace patterns onto her skin. "What are you doing?" she hisses.

"Nothing," Killian says innocently. He takes her free hand and lifts her arm; his breath is warm on her skin and his beard tickles. "Talk to your sister."

Emma looks up in a silent plea for strength against the warm shivers his touch sends through her. He starts kissing down the length of her arm and she wants to lean into it; she sucks in a breath when his mouth finds her tattoo, his tongue swirling around it. Finally, Mary Margaret answers the phone. "Emma, are you alright?"

Emma takes a deep breath and clears her throat. "Yeah, I'm fine. Phone got soaked so I had it in a bag of rice," she lies easily. Killian's hands - of course he's not going to make this easy - run up and down her sides and hips as she talks. Emma bites the inside of her lip to keep from making a sound as he cups her ass, his thumb grazing the split between her cheeks. She reaches back and smacks his hands away and he chuckles softly.

"Then why didn't you just use… Oh, nevermind. Dinner's in an hour if you're hungry," Mary Margaret tells her.

Killian has now laid down behind her, his beard scraping lightly against her hip as he presses small kisses along her thigh. "Okay. Let me just - ahhhh, _fuck,_ knock it off!" Emma says without thinking as he bites her gently.

"What's wrong?" Mary Margaret asks.

Emma's face is burning as she shifts a little further out of Killian's grasp. He's undeterred, following her and wrapping one arm around her waist to keep her still as he traces a pattern over the red mark with his tongue. It's annoying and kind of hot and _Jesus_ she's glad she called Mary Margaret and not David. "Killian has cats, one of them likes to _bite_," she says, twisting to glare down at him. He flashes a quick grin before going back to kissing her.

Mary Margaret hums thoughtfully. "I didn't know you liked cats."

Killian's lips are really distracting, and now the hand on the arm he's got wrapped around her is starting to wander too. "They're okay. Look, let me just get my clothes and I'll be home," Emma says and immediately winces at her choice of words. Killian stills.

Mary Margaret is slow to answer. "Emma?"

"They were in the dryer."

"Emma."

"It was raining buckets, we both got drenched, he let me borrow something to wear while my stuff dried. He was a gentleman."

Killian's silent laugh vibrates against her skin. She huffs. Well, he had been, just… not in the way she was making it out to be. Mary Margaret makes a disbelieving noise on her end of the line. "Should I count an extra person for dinner?"

Emma grits her teeth. "I'm hanging up now."

"I did say he's a nice guy who is single, didn't I?"

"Good_bye_, Mary Margaret."

"Tell Killian I said hello."

Emma hangs up with a huff. "Cat's out of the bag, then," Killian then says, propping himself up.

"Not if I can help it," she grumbles and flings the covers off of herself, getting out of bed.

She dresses in a bit of a rush, ignoring the way he's watching her. She sees him in the mirror that's hanging over his dresser, though, dark eyes with darker promises that make her want to climb right back into bed with him. The mirror also reveals the small collection of hickeys he's left on her chest. She's only glad she's got a dark shirt on under her jacket. Her hair is some crazy mix of slept-in, air-dried, sex hair and she scowls at herself in the mirror while she assesses how to handle it without a brush. "Do I need to go down to the tack room and get a comb for you?" Killian asks teasingly.

Emma sighs and bends over, whipping her hair up into some sort of topknot. "This will have to do," she says.

She hears him get off the bed as she's tying off her mess of hair - she should really cut it, it's getting ridiculous - and his hands are on her waist again as she straightens. He pulls her against him and she fights the urge to moan appreciatively at the way they fit together. "I need to go," she says breathily.

"You're a tease," he murmurs in her ear, rolling his hips into her ass.

She's about to reply that _no_, it's only being a tease when you don't intend to follow through, but then she remembers that she _doesn't_ intend to follow through. This can't go on past today. She has her job, she has her family, the farm, she has… well, she's working on getting Henry back and it's slow-going, but he's at least responding to text messages now and they didn't kill each other in the car on Sunday. She has responsibilities, she can't go getting lost in some man only to find out he's grown bored of her and wind up with her heart broken again.

Even if she _is_ the one who usually walks out first, it doesn't mean she's not hurt by it.

Then Killian's mouth is on her neck again and Emma wants to melt into his arms and say fuck everything: fuck her rules, fuck responsibilities, and (most importantly) fuck _him_. "Killian, really." She's actually really proud of the way she managed to form two whole words without moaning. "I need to go and this needs to sto-_aaahp_," she whines, dragging the vowel out as he licks just under her ear - how the _hell _did he already know that was her weak spot?

"Mmhm," is all he says, nosing around her hairline and the little puffs of hot air on her neck sending shivers of anticipation down her spine.

She needs to get a grip or else they're just going to stay right here in his bedroom forever. "Killian, stop. I mean it." He doesn't sigh or make any other noise of disappointment - which is good because she really doesn't want another bruising for punching someone in the face - only releases her. Emma steps away and takes a deep breath to get her hormones to calm down. She's reconsidering the punch at the slightly smug curl of his lips, but the return of the tender look in his eye makes her pause. And it really hurts to think of what she has to say next. "Thank you," Emma says. "For…"

"The best sex of your life, it's okay to say it," Killian says, the smile turning into a grin.

She does punch him this time, in the shoulder, and he grimaces. "Don't get cocky. It was pretty good," she admits, and he laughs. "But that's all it was, okay?" The amusement in his face fades as he tries to figure out what she means. She shifts her weight a little. "This was a one-time thing. I can't - I don't _do_ \- It was fun, but that's all it was."

She isn't sure if she imagines the shadow that flickers across his face or not. "Scratched the itch," Killian says softly.

"Yeah. Something like that." God, this sucks, but it's for the best.

Emma can't help but feel like the soft smile he gives her is fake. Killian holds the door open for her and sweeps his arm to guide her out. "As you wish, Swan. Still, we had our fun, didn't we?"

Her own smile isn't all that real as she heads down the stairs. He's doing that thing where he sounds all final again and it makes all of this hurt worse. She likes having him around, pain in the ass that he can be. She's not saying they can't be friends, she just…

She just can't have her heart broken again.

"Today was fun," Emma says instead as they go into the kitchen. One of the cats is sniffing her boots suspiciously. They're hopelessly wet still, so putting them on again kind of really sucks. "I mean it, I had a good time."

He's leaning on the door frame, one eyebrow cocked in amusement. "Say it enough times and I might actually believe it, Swan."

She rubs the cat's ears - did Killian ever mention their names? - and is affectionately chirped at before it goes wandering off. She straightens. "I just - I don't want you getting the wrong idea," she says and it feels really stupid.

Now his brow furrows. "We had a dalliance," he says and _of course_ he uses words like _dalliance_ in everyday conversation, what even. "We're both adults here, Emma, we knew what we were getting into."

_Then why do I feel like I don't?!_ she wants to scream, but she keeps herself in check. She's tired. She'll have her head on straight after some food and a good night's sleep. Killian holds out her car keys and she takes them, maybe a little too swiftly, and fiddles with her keychain before saying, "Just… don't leave, okay?"

She bolts out the door and into the drizzle before he can ask what she means.

* * *

Mary Margaret's singing along to her Shania Twain playlist when Emma gets home twenty minutes later. Emma almost laughs at the way Leo's walking around with his hands over his ears and she turns down the volume a little. "What's the occasion?" she asks, nodding to the bottle of wine and the boxes of pizza on the counter.

"I am celebrating," Mary Margaret declares and now Emma does giggle at the dramatic way she flings her arms wide. "It's summer vacation, I refuse to cook, and the only children I have to look after are my own and Regina's for the next three months."

"And your other students," Emma reminds her, but Mary Margaret flaps her hand at her.

"They don't count, it's ninety minutes a few times a week."

Emma peels off her jacket, carefully making sure her shirt collar stays where it's supposed to be. "And what's this about Regina's kids? Henry and Roland are going to be here?"

She helps Mary Margaret bring everything into the dining room; Leo is given the task of bringing the paper plates and his own juice cup. "Henry's got his own thing going on, but I saw Regina today when she came in to pick up Roland. She wanted to know if I knew of any good daycare services," Mary Margaret explains. "Apparently, Marian's working days at the hospital now and with Robin teaching a summer course and then going on that research trip in a few weeks, there's not going to be anyone around to keep an eye on Roland most days. So I said we'd keep Roland whenever we could - I mean, he and Leo are the same age, in the same class, and it'll be nice for Leo to have a friend to play with all the time too." Emma nods, silently waiting for Mary Margaret to finish her rambling - always a sign that there was something she wanted to say but was nervous about actually saying. "They can keep each other busy so someone's not always watching them and we can get those repairs done on the farm. And I thought it might be good practice to have a couple of kids running around."

Emma's eyebrows go up. Mary Margaret smiles nervously. "You're trying for another kid?" Emma asks softly.

"We've talked about it for a while. Leo's going to be six soon, so he'll be getting more independant and I can concentrate on a baby."

Emma nods at the bottle of wine. "And that's okay?"

Mary Margaret nods and picks some wine glasses out of the china cupboard. "One night won't hurt. And after the last couple of weeks I've had, I need one night to blow off some steam, and then I'll hop on the sobriety wagon."

Emma smiles slyly as Mary Margaret pours them both glasses and Leo climbs up into his chair. "So I shouldn't remind you that you still have two inservice days this week."

"Please, after the environment projects we did all this month, inservice days are nothing."

The back door slams, announcing David's arrival. Emma doles out the pizza as they hear him washing up. He sighs loudly when he enters the dining room. "Out of the box, really?"

Mary Margaret glances at him sharply over her glass of wine. "_And_ paper plates. I'm doing as few dishes tonight as possible, buster, so sit down or go make yourself dinner."

David kisses her on the cheek. "You're right, my dear, I'm sorry."

She smiles triumphantly and Emma pretends to gag. David's brow furrows curiously. "You didn't look like that when you left, did you? You're all… disheveled."

Mary Margaret looks just short of delighted. "Yes, Emma, why _are _you so disheveled this evening?"

Emma takes a bite of pizza and swallows, pointedly looking both of them in the eye as she answers, "Because Maine forgot it's not the freaking rainforest. Or did it not rain on this side of town today?"

David raises his eyebrow. "Defensive much?"

Emma grumbles into her own wine glass. "Mary Margaret needs to add a quarter to her hope jar."

"Is it so _bad_ that I might think -"

"_Yes_, it's bad. Stop thinking it," Emma cuts her off. "Can we please talk about something else now?"

David and Mary Margaret trade a look before David launches into the details of the finalized plans for renovating one of the barns and Emma only half-listens as she eats. She and Mary Margaret end up splitting the bottle of wine between themselves and after dinner, Emma volunteers to get Leo ready for bed. If she's avoiding being in the same room as her brother or sister-in-law, she tries not to think about it too much. It's easier than having Mary Margaret pick at her about what really happened that afternoon - not that she's ashamed of sleeping with Killian. It's just that Mary Margaret has a tendency to jump from point A to point J really quickly and leave everyone else wondering how she got there. Emma doesn't want Mary Margaret to overthink this, because there is no 'this'.

She and Leo play a rousing game of dinosaurs versus Ninjago before bath time and then he falls asleep during _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_. She manages to slip up to the attic without anyone noticing, deciding to forgo a shower until the morning - conveniently when David and Leo will already be at the track and Mary Margaret will be at her inservice day.

Emma sits on her bed with a comb and begins attacking her hopelessly snarled hair. Maybe she should start to seriously think about getting it cut. Then again, she's only saying this now that she's put it through the wringer. Who knew Killian had a thing for hair? Her face warms - well, _she_ did, the number of lame (or not-so-lame) excuses he's had over their acquaintance to play with her hair should attest to that. Even so, the thought of him taking it a step further, taking it in handfuls and pulling (_controlling the way you suck him off_, her traitor mind says) sends a shock of arousal through her. She almost smiles - seriously, how can she even _think_ about being horny after today? - but reality threatens to crash around her as she remembers that there will _definitely not _be another opportunity to feel how rough he could be with her.

Her phone buzzes, bringing her out of her 's an unfamiliar number on her screen with a text: '_Emma its Anna I got ur number from Elsas phone sry if thats weird can u come in rly early tmrw?_'

Emma blinks a few times, then taps out her response: '_Yeah, something wrong?_'

Anna's reply is almost immediate. '_We need 2 talk abt smthng, pls pls pls don't tell Elsa_'

'_OK_'. Emma sets her phone down after Anna replies with at least ten smilies and resumes her assault on her hair. Well, at least thinking about what Anna could possibly have to talk to her about that's so secret is a nice distraction from reminiscing about that afternoon.

* * *

In the morning, Emma detours from her usual pattern and heads down into the locker rooms. Anna's shouting in rapid Spanish to some of the jocks when she pokes her head in the room. (Hey, it may have taken Emma a few weeks to pick up that Killian's second language was Irish, but she definitely took Spanish in high school. Even if she only retained 'hola' and 'taco' she knows it when she hears it.) Anna grins broadly when she spots Emma. She sends the jocks off and walks around the counter. "Hi, sorry about that, it's so good to see you!" Anna says, grabbing Emma's hand and going into the hallway.

"Hey," Emma says, taking her hand back maybe a little too quickly but Anna's unwavering friendliness is a little unnerving so early in her day. "What's with all the top secret stuff?"

Anna's smile wavers a bit but doesn't fall. "Oh, that. Well, you see it's just that there's a tiny little problem and I just wanted you to make sure Elsa has a calm day today, because I think she's not going to handle a lot of things well? Yesterday was kind of a rough day and if everything could go smoothly today I think it could help keep her calm and then there won't be any problems and then maybe when we get home we can talk a little more about the situation with Kristoff and -"

"Whoa," Emma cuts her off. "Okay. Step back, breathe, start again. What happened yesterday?"

This time Anna's smile does fall a little. "Kristoff's contract is up next year. He's talking about going back home to Colorado, if they'll take him. He came home last night asking if it would be okay to have his agent start putting the word out."

Emma winces in sympathy. "Geez, that sucks. I'm sorry, Anna."

Anna shifts uncomfortably. "He - He wanted to know if I would go with him."

"So, wait, how is this a problem?" Emma asks, confused. Her track record with relationships sucks but she knows a good thing when she sees it. "Anna, that's great!"

Anna smiles uncomfortably, wringing her hands while she looks around the deserted hallway. "Please don't mention this to anyone, especially Elsa," she says softly. "She doesn't like people knowing, even though I've told her over and over again that it's okay and nothing to be ashamed of, but you know how sisters can be." Emma doesn't, not exactly, but she nods anyway. Anna glances around again. "Elsa has multiple sclerosis. She was diagnosed really early, that happens sometimes. Most of the time she's fine, but some days are worse than others and she needs someone around to help here and there. All of her doctors are here, they all know her case and the proper treatments for all of her symptoms. Elsa's my sister and she's the only family I have left. I can't just… I can't leave her to fend for herself."

Emma wants to sit down, but there's nowhere for her to do so. She leans against the wall instead. "She can't just go with you?"

Anna shrugs. "She would if I asked, but I'm worried about… Elsa has a hard time trusting new people. You're the first person in a long time she's taken to so quickly. Doctors are a different story, I don't want to put her through that and potentially set her back months. So just - please make sure she's okay today."

Emma nods and Anna beams at her. The younger woman moves to go back inside the locker rooms but Emma catches her wrist. "Thank you for telling me," she says. "If you need - if there's anything else I can do, please let me know."

Anna turns her hand over and squeezes Emma's in silent thanks.

Emma snags a cup of coffee from the offices and goes to stand outside against the rail. Morning workouts are finishing up and the jockeys begin to replace the horses on the track. She nods at faces she knows, exercise boys and jocks alike. She's seen them at this daily for weeks now on the monitors, running the track once or twice before going in for last-minute weigh-ins, but it's the first time she sees it up close. They rib each other good-naturedly, tossing out insults in Spanish and English as they put in earbuds and pace themselves up the stretch - it's not a race, not this early in the day. Save the competition for later.

Her thoughts drift to Henry and how he'd been running the oval last weekend. He'd said in the car on Sunday that he was just trying different ways to get into better shape, that he needed to be stronger to handle better horses. She didn't disagree with that; handling a 1,600 pound animal required strength. And jocks ran the oval plenty, a completely normal way to stay in shape. But Emma remembers Jefferson and worry gnaws at her heart.

The fragile bubble of happiness she'd built yesterday is popping and she doesn't like it.

"Swan?"

She doesn't jump like she might usually at the intrusion into her thoughts. It scares her how just hearing his voice can make her smile and take the edge off her worry. Emma glances over her shoulder. "Morning, Jones."

Killian comes to stand by her at the rail. The jocks are rounding the clubhouse turn. "Bit dull compared to the usual, innit?"

She laughs softly. "Yeah, just a bit."

"Are you okay?"

"Peachy," Emma says, and she takes a drink.

He hums in disbelief. "I don't know if you've noticed, love, but you have a habit of saying that when you might not entirely be - as you say - 'peachy'."

She's definitely going to raise the number of people who can read her like a book to two. Even David isn't this good - or maybe he is and just does that stupid waiting game thing all the time, whereas Killian likes annoying her too much. "Just some stuff going on," she says instead. "I've been sworn to secrecy, though, sorry."

Killian nods, bracing himself on his forearms on the rail. "Fair enough. If there's anything I can do to help, though, just let me know."

Emma swallows the surge of affection that's rising in her chest. "You don't even know what it is," she protests.

He shrugs, his eyes on the jockeys heading down the backstretch to the final turn. "If you care about it enough to worry, then it's important. That's reason enough, Swan."

Killian's face is completely serious and it's scary but calming all at once. He gets her in ways she's never been understood in the past, as with yesterday's talk about what makes something home when you've never really had one. (His are his cats. Hers? Right now it's a little boy who loves dinosaurs, a teenager with stubborn dreams and a terrifying yet kind mother, a pregnant horse, and a family kind enough to take in a sullen, broken young woman.) Emma has this suspicion that she could say she needed anything - a ride to the border, a getaway car, someone to pick up Leo from daycare, help hiding a body - and all he'd ask was what time and where. She doesn't know what she's done to earn that kind of loyalty but it's more than a little terrifying - even more terrifying than the way she felt better just by hearing him say her name. She clears her throat, thumbing the edge of her styrofoam coffee cup. "Well… thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

She glances back up at him as he does the same to her. The corner of his mouth is curling up into that annoyingly smug grin of his, and yet she's still drawn to him like a freaking magnet. She swore she wouldn't do this again, but her hand is already fisting in his shirt, pulling him down scant inches to meet her lips. The tension that'd been building at the base of her neck vanishes as she breathes him in, feels the soft tease of his lips against hers, his soft sigh music to her ears. It feels _good_, it feels _right_, _why the hell is she fighting this_? His hand comes up to cup the back of her head, his tongue teasing her lips to open, when two things happen: a pack of wolf-whistles and taunts in multiple languages erupts to her right and a girlish gasp of delight sounds from her left.

Reality crashes in again as Emma pulls away quickly. This can't happen again, she can't get distracted and hurt again. The jockeys laugh and file back in through the gates - a few Emma know ride regularly for Killian come by to slap their boss good-naturedly on the back, which only furthers her mortification at being caught in some serious PDA. She's desperately wishing the ground would just open up and swallow her when Elsa slips her arm through Emma's. "Mr. Jones," Elsa greets, smiling brightly.

"Miss Adgarssen," he says, nodding at her. Emma can't quite look him in the face now, her cheeks burning.

"I'll be taking Emma now, if that's alright with you," Elsa says with no small amount of amusement in her tone.

He nods again. "Aye, I'll - I'll see you later then."

Emma doesn't reply as she's practically dragged away. She glances up at Elsa, who is wearing a rather thick pair of glasses, but other than that shows no signs that she might be upset like Anna had thought. _Then again, she can be a bigger gossip than Ruby_, Emma thinks wryly, so maybe walking in on her and Killian kissing has cheered Elsa up significantly. "Don't say anything to Ruby," Emma says.

Elsa almost pouts. "Oh, but _why_? You and Mr. Jones are adorable together."

"Yeah, that's the thing, there's no 'together', there's just - there's no me and Killian."

Elsa arches an eyebrow at her. "It looked like there was a you-and-Killian to me."

"Get a new prescription," Emma grumbles and then she immediately feels bad until Elsa starts laughing.

Ruby's already in the control room when they arrive. She looks like the cat that's got the canary and there's a sinking feeling in Emma's stomach. "Elsa. Emma," Ruby says knowingly.

"Ruby," Emma says warily, going to her chair. Elsa, traitor that she is, murmurs something about hot water for tea and vanishes out the door again.

Ruby spins her seat around to face Emma. Emma is strongly reminded of some supervillain, like Dr. Evil or Dr. Claw - seriously, who was giving out in evil? - and the only thing missing is some animal for Ruby to stroke menacingly. "Emma, what's the spin on the paddock camera?"

"Not a full three-sixty, maybe like three-fifty," Emma replies and it kind of comes out like a question.

Now Ruby is smirking, looking extra dangerous with her blood red lipstick and sharply winged eyeliner. "Correct. Please look at the paddock camera screen."

Killian is still standing where she and Elsa left him, leaning on the fence and staring up at the sky. She doesn't want to zoom in and see his expression - wondering if it's anything like how she's feeling, confused and giddy and content all at once - but she has a pretty good guess as to how long the camera's been positioned there. "Ruby," Emma starts, but the screen flickers and she belatedly remembers that the cameras are _always _recording.

As Ruby hits play, Emma can't help it: she leans in a little to see the replay better. Elsa returns and she, too, leans in to look better. "We're kind of hot," Emma says finally.

"_Thank_ you," Ruby says. "Now, why aren't you and cowboy knocking boots already?"

"We aren't -"

Elsa sits, ripping open a new tea bag and dipping it in her mug. "You haven't even thought about it?"

"I mean, I can't say that -"

"Seriously, girl, get on that before someone else does! At least ride him around the corral once. For me. _Please_," Ruby begs.

Emma holds up her hands. "If both of you don't let me talk, I'm not telling either of you anything again! This doesn't leave the room. Breathe a word to anyone and I make your life a living hell. Yes, Killian and I kissed," she says, ignoring the way Ruby teases her about using his first name, "but that's it. Nothing further will happen."

Ruby sighs dramatically. "You're no fun. And what the hell is that smell?"

Elsa holds up her mug. "_Ssanghwa cha_. It tastes better than it smells, I promise."

Ruby wrinkles her nose anyway. Emma uses the opportunity of the spotlight away from her to do her morning chores. Victor and Jefferson come in and Ruby tires of the silence enough to start chattering about the getaway she and Victor are going on over Independance Day weekend. The day goes by smoothly, with no further mention of any exploits by anyone - not that Victor didn't try at one point, but Emma put her foot down before he could really get going. Emma also keeps her promise to Anna and makes sure Elsa is okay, who seems fine enough, but what does Emma know about MS?

They're closing up shop for the day when Ruby gets that look in her eye again. "So… I think we need a drink-and-dish session," she says.

Emma sighs heavily. "Ruby, no one says that."

"Clearly, I just did, and you know what I meant by it. Girl's night!"

Elsa pinches the bridge of her nose. "I don't think I can tonight."

Despite knowing she's turning it down for bad reasons, Emma feels a wave of affection for Elsa. "And we work tomorrow. And the next day," she tells Ruby. "Remember how our last girl's night went?"

Ruby scowls. "Neither of you are any fun. Fine. Saturday, though, we are going out, or I swear to God I will spend all day Monday singing "Out Tonight" from RENT."

Victor pokes his head in from the camera room. "She means it, too. It won't be pretty."

Emma makes a face. "If I slip a horse tranquilizer in her coffee, how much trouble will I be in?"

"_She_ has decided _she_ doesn't like either of you anymore, so _she_ is leaving," Ruby declares, gathering her things and standing up with a huff.

"Don't be like that, babe."

"Get your own ride home, Victor."

As Ruby stalks off down the hall, the sound of her heels fading into the distance, Victor just shakes his head and mutters something about taping cables, going back into the camera room. Elsa sighs. "She'll get over it."

Emma stands up with a groan, reaching above her head to stretch. "I don't think she's mad, not really. She's just annoyed I won't talk about you-know-what."

Elsa shrugs, and Emma isn't sure if she's mentally exaggerating how slowly Elsa gets to her feet. "Personally, I don't see why you and… erm, I mean, why there isn't anything going on," Elsa amends. "I could see the interest, even a few weeks ago."

Emma shrugs and picks up both of their purses - is she imagining the wry look on Elsa's face as Emma hands Elsa her purse or not? "I'm the problem," Emma says quietly as they leave. The guys can finish up their cable issues and lock up, she trusts them. "I don't do relationships, not anymore. He'll get bored of me and then I'll have to leave so I'm not quite as broken as I could be and I honestly just don't want to deal with that."

Elsa hums thoughtfully. "Can't you just hook up once and get it out of the way?"

That startles a laugh out of Emma. "Sorry, just... never thought you'd refer to something as a hook up," she says to Elsa's curious look. "And no. I have a feeling it wouldn't go over that easily."

Emma misses the way Elsa's eyes narrow for a moment before she gasps. "You already slept with him!" Elsa practically shrieks and Emma slaps her hand over Elsa's mouth.

"_I swear to God, Elsa, if you tell anyone, no one will find your body_," she hisses.

Elsa grabs Emma's free hand and drags her into an empty judging booth, locking the door behind them. "Okay, what the _hell_ is going on with you?" Elsa demands. "Straight, non-vague answers, please."

Emma grits her teeth and her head falls back in frustration. "Why is everyone I know some sort of detective?" she asks no one in particular. "This doesn't -"

"Leave the room," Elsa finishes. "Yes, you've said that today and quite often. Talk."

So Emma talks. She does spare Elsa the dirtier details, but Emma talks quite a bit about their kiss several weeks earlier and the way she'd been avoiding Killian after. She talks about how they talked it over, how they resumed their friendship, and how he'd invited her riding - she leaves out the part about Henry, too. She tells Elsa about everything leading up to them finally sleeping together yesterday and then her declaration that it was a one time thing. Then she tells her about today and how she'd felt almost overwhelmed with the urge to kiss him again just because he offered his help for something he didn't even know about. Elsa has this weird look on her face when Emma finishes, one Emma can't figure out. "Emma," Elsa says softly. "It sounds like you've got a promising start here. What's holding you back?"

Emma fidgets as a burning itch rushes through her body, like it does every time she has to talk about this. "I dunno."

Elsa's expression changes to sympathy. "You're scared because you've been hurt in the past. Believe me, I understand that. But I don't think Mr. Jones is the kind of man you're used to dealing with."

Emma scratches at her tattoo. "But what if he is?" she asks softly, and she hates herself for sounding weak.

"You can 'what if' yourself to death, Emma, but you're never going to know unless you try." Elsa reaches over and takes Emma's hand, stopping her from scratching at her wrist. "Not everyone is going to be like Gold's son." Emma looks at her incredulously and Elsa smiles apologetically. "Word travels fast around here. I found out why you punched Gold in the face. He deserved it. Sorry."

Emma laughs shakily and tucks a bit of hair behind her ear. "No, don't apologize, I should have expected it to get out. I still don't do relationships, though."

Elsa shrugs. "So don't put a label on it. Be one of those groovy New Age people who live in the moment." Emma's mouth opens soundlessly and she stares for a full minute before Elsa starts to giggle. "Okay, that was ridiculous, I'll give you that. Look, if it goes badly, I'll buy you a tub of ice cream and we'll let Ruby pick out the movies. But I don't think you're going to need that. It might be different and it might be scary, but just… Just give it a chance, okay?"

Suddenly, Emma remembers Anna that morning and talking about moving and doctors and other things Emma doesn't fully understand and then she wonders if Elsa's giving _her _advice or trying to give _herself _advice. And she realizes it doesn't really matter as long as at least one of them takes it.

-/-

"See you later, lad." Killian ruffles Leo's hair before David puts him in his carseat in the truck.

David nods in a friendly way and he gets in the driver's side. Killian shoves his hands in his pockets and wanders towards his own truck and trailer as the Nolans pull away. Another easy end-of-day for him, with everyone stabled at the track overnight, but he'd been an eejit and forgotten to reserve space to leave the trailer too. He hates the way the trailer blows all over the road without anything to weigh it down, but he has no other choice.

Hurried footsteps bring him out of his thoughts and he looks up in time to see Emma running towards him. "Swan? What's the -"

And then she's crashing into him, sending him stumbling just before their lips meet for the second time today and he's elated and confused all at once. She's going to drive him mad, between declarations of a one time thing and then asking him not to leave, then kissing him again this morning and now she's throwing herself at him? He pulls away gently as confusion wins out. "Emma, love, you can't do this to a man -"

She puts a finger on his lips to silence him. "Do you want this? Me?"

Killian doesn't even know his own name right now. "Are you asking me to be -"

"No," she says firmly. "No labels, no b-word or g-word or whatever else people are coming up with. Just… It's just us. What you said yesterday. Here and now, just you and me. Don't call it anything. Live in the moment or whatever."

He raises an eyebrow. "Have you become some great philosopher in the last twenty-four hours, Swan?" She frowns and opens her mouth to probably yell at him, but he shakes his head. "If you're asking if I want you, then the answer is yes, as mad as you are."

"Okay," she breathes, and she stands on her toes to kiss him again.

Even if he still has no idea what she's on about, elation takes hold again and he gently lifts her up a bit more into his arms. He doesn't spin her around, not really, but a few steps in a semicircle is enough before she pulls away again and gives him that hopeful, nervous smile. And he knows exactly how she feels.


	13. June 6-July 4

Killian dreams of her.

She's a siren, luring him into the ocean depths with a glance, a song, a toss of her hair. She crooks her finger in a command he cannot disobey, sinking further down and into her embrace. He's lost in a tangle of limbs and hair, drowning in Emma, and can think of no better way to die than with the taste of her on his lips -

Killian wakes with a start to the rhythmic buzz of his alarm, his face buried in the pillow that smells vaguely of her. He reaches over with a groan and slaps the alarm clock into silence, then rolls onto his back, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It feels like dawn workouts come earlier every day - and perhaps they do this time of year - but it is entirely too early, and only after tea can he possibly become philosophic about this.

He goes about his usual morning routine - shower, two mugs of tea, jam on toast - and heads down to the shedrow as the sun turns the sky pink. Will has some of the lads out on the oval already, stopwatch and clipboard in hand. "Morning, Scarlet," Killian says.

"Morning, Mr. Jones. Smee's back today, I have 'im doing medications," Will tells him, his eyes never leaving the distant figures racing along the backstretch.

Killian nods. "How much do you want to bet his wife just got tired of him lazing about at home and sent him back to us, crutches or not?" Will smirks but doesn't answer, so Killian leaves him to it and goes inside, where Smee - a nervous little man by nature, undoubtedly made worse by his accident this winter - is clearly debating with himself outside of Bluff's stall. "Mr. Smee," Killian says, nodding. "Not afraid of our beasts now, are you?"

Smee sighs. "No, sir, just a bit nervous. Three months off with a broken leg leaves you a little reluctant to come back and have the other broken. Especially with this one."

Killian fights the urge to roll his eyes and unlatches the door to the stall, stepping in. Bluff had broken Smee's leg back in February when he'd been foolish enough to try to lance an abscess without anyone's help. Killian can sense this turning into a routine if he's not careful. "I'll hold him while you inject, if it makes you feel better."

Bluff is edgy, likely sensing Smee's unease. Killian grabs hold of Bluff's halter, keeping him steady as he fights to plunge. Killian can't do anything if Bluff decides to kick again, but hopefully Killian can keep him distracted long enough for Smee to administer the Lasix. "Ara, there's a good lad," Killian murmurs in Irish, doubling his hold on one side of Bluff's halter as he reaches up to stroke between the horse's eyes. "Just a little prick, like most days, nothing a strong beast like yourself can't handle. Too bad a little prick has to be the one giving it to you. We should have a nice lady nurse giving you your shots, you'd behave then, wouldn't you?"

As Killian talks, Smee enters the stall carefully. Yet Bluff's ears still go flat and there's a dull thunk as he kicks back with one leg, hitting the wood. Killian tugs harder on Bluff's halter, keeping him steady. He murmurs nonsense in his native tongue, hoping the foreign words are as hypnotizing on the animal as they usually are on women. Thoughts of Emma threaten to surface in his mind, but Killian tamps down his emotions. Distraction now could mean trouble for himself and Mr. Smee.

The needle flashes in the light for a moment before Smee sinks it into Bluff's flank, and the whole process is done in half a breath. Bluff fights to plunge and Smee backs out quickly. Killian's biceps scream with the effort it takes to keep Bluff in one place. "_Easy_, lad, _easy_! You'll hurt yourself if you keep this up!" Bluff's ears are flat and the stall vibrates with another thunk as he kicks, but he eventually stills. Killian pats Bluff's nose absently, murmuring praises, before he backs out of the stall himself. "Feisty this morning," he comments, latching the door behind him.

Smee sags in his relief that the ordeal is done. "He's a demon all right, sir," he mutters.

Killian snorts. Some days he wonders how Smee ever got into this business in the first place. "A demon who's going to sire champions one day, if I have my way of things."

Smee doffs his red cap, mopping his sweaty brow with a dirty handkerchief. "Mrs. Hood wants to breed him?"

"She will, if she's smart. We haven't discussed it yet, but I've a feeling she'll be willing to listen. She knows good stock when she's got it," Killian says.

He bids Smee good morning and wanders into his office. Will clocking workouts on the oval, Killian isn't needed until it's time to pick up and head over to the track for the day. Killian's let paperwork go a bit too long this time, so he closes the door behind him and sighs at the mess waiting for him.

His thoughts wander after half an hour or so. There's only so much of this tedium he can take before it becomes too much, and it's honestly more entertaining to revisit his earlier thoughts of Emma. It hasn't even been two full days since he's had her and just the thought of her stirs desire within him. Killian leans back in his chair, bracing his arms on his head. She'd been glorious but his first assessment, when they'd kissed for the first time, had been correct: he doubts he'd ever have enough of her. Now, he's allowed the pleasure of her company at any time with this… whatever they were, able to try and tempt her into his bed when he pleased. Now, he finally has the opportunity to test that theory that he'll never have his fill of her. Killian gets lost in a daydream, imagining the various and sundry ways he could take her. He'd mount her like a stallion right there in the shedrow, or he could find all the delectable ways her body could bend in bed. He particularly looks forward to finding out all the ways Emma dreams of taking him in return and filling her every wish.

A knock at the door just before it opens jolts him back into the present. Will's raised eyebrow says what his mouth does not: he knows exactly whom and what Killian is thinking about. "We're goin' to trailer up and head out to check on the lads, if sir isn't occupied with anything else," Will mocks lightly.

Killian grumbles under his breath about impertinent stable hands and wills his erection away. He shifts a little before getting up. "Hope you're not looking for a good letter of reference, Scarlet," Killian tells him as he brushes past him - probably a little rougher than is strictly necessary.

"Wouldn't expect one, Mr. Jones, as you'd be writin' to yourself," Will says, following him out to the trucks. Killian laughs despite himself. Will's an arse, but he's good.

The ride over is easy - empty trailer again, but they'll be bringing a few horses home tonight - and the sun is cresting the tree line as they pull in. The stables at the track buzz like a beehive as workers get through the morning chores. Warm-ups and workouts are well underway, the farrier's hammer rings out against the anvil, the stalls are being cleaned, grooming and medication are an ongoing process. As ever, the briskness and efficiency of the well-oiled machine catches Killian and his boys up.

Killian doesn't realize how much time has passed until Will asks if Miss Adgarssen has any sick notices for them. So Killian trudges up the gravel path to the main offices, sweating already from the hint of summer in the air. "Morning," he calls as he opens the door.

"One of these days we'll get you to say it right," Leroy, the track announcer, quips from the doorway to a judge's office. "It's 'top o' the mornin' where you're from."

Killian knows Leroy well enough that he can punch him in the arm a bit as retribution. "_Téigh trasna ort féin,_" Killian tells him, grinning at Leroy's confused look. "Learn a thing or two and _then_ tell me how to talk," Killian adds, heading into the locker room.

There's a high-pitched squeal that leaves his ears ringing as soon as he enters. "_Bloody _hell," he curses, just before he's tackled by something small.

"I can't believe it! I mean, I can, I _totally_ saw how you two looked at each other last month, but _I can't believe it_! I'm so _happy_ for you guys, it's so _exciting_! Are you excited? Are you taking her anywhere for your first date, or did you do that already? Where did you go, how was -" Anna babbles until Killian gently removes her arms from around him and then she looks sheepishly contrite. "Sorry. Got it. Take it down from a ten to a four. But I'm so excited for you two!"

Killian's brain is a bit slow on the uptake. "Happy for what, lass?"

Anna looks at him like he's grown a second head. "You and Emma," she says slowly. "You're together now, right?"

His brow knits together. "How did you…"

Anna starts to look a little panicked. "Elsa told me? Was she not supposed to? Oh God, is this a secret thing and I totally blew it, oh _God_ -"

"Anna, lass, calm down. I don't know," Killian tells her honestly. He wonders how Emma's going to react to this. They hadn't discussed the terms of… whatever this is, this '_you and me_' that they are. "It's very new, whatever it is. Might be best if you didn't tell the whole track, yeah?"

She nods enthusiastically. "You got it. Mum's the word, no one will hear a thing from me! Now, Jeffrey's out today, so you'll need a replacement on three of your entries today," she says, slipping into her professional role with ease as she steps behind her desk again.

After getting his entries sorted, Killian stops in the little kitchen to grab himself a coffee. He glances out the window as he's stirring in a bit of sugar and cream into his coffee. (Tea may be taken black, but coffee is another monster entirely.) He sees a familiar yellow Bug pulling into the employee parking lot and can't help the smile that blooms on his face. As he picks up his cup, Killian pauses for a moment. Should he bring Emma coffee? Was that allowed? Did she even like coffee? He's pretty sure she's mentioned she liked coffee. Wait, how does she like her coffee? Did they ever discuss that?

He can see her getting out of the Bug and makes a quick decision. He pours her a cup and leaves it black - she can fix it how she likes later. Killian takes both cups and strides out the door. Emma's hurrying up the sidewalk, shoving something into her purse and not quite paying attention to where she's going. He's intrigued to see her in heels, silken blouse, and a tight skirt again, wondering if there's an occasion for it - and perhaps _intrigued_ is too tame a word for the desire that warms him. "Swan!" he hails.

She looks up, frustrated as she thrusts her mane of hair away from her face. "Oh. It's you. Hi."

Killian raises an eyebrow in amusement. "That's all I get, 'it's you'?"

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Haven't had coffee yet, that's about as nice as I'm gonna be about it."

Now he grins, holding out the cup for her. "It appears I've saved the day. Afraid I don't know how you take it, love, so you'll have to make do with black."

Emma gives him an odd look as she takes the offered cup, halfway between scrutiny and confusion. "Thanks," she says slowly.

His eyebrows come together worriedly as anxiety twists itself into knots in his chest. "Is this - I mean, should I not have -"

She hesitates for a moment before laying a hand on his arm. "No, it's fine, it's just… Unexpected," she finishes after a moment. She takes a cautious sip and makes a face. "Damn, you weren't kidding about black." He silently offers his own cup. She gives him that odd look again before tasting it and making another face - this one in disgust. She even sticks her tongue out, as if it might halt the sensory overload. "_Jesus_, Jones, how much sugar did you put in there?"

He grins as the anxious knots ease slightly. "Enough to make it palatable."

She shudders and drinks her own, probably to take the edge off the cloying taste in her mouth. "Okay _now_ I get your thing with iced tea. For future reference, I like more cream than sugar in mine."

"I'll bear that in mind, Swan."

Her fingers curl around her cup and she hesitates again, shifting uneasily. "I, ah, need to get upstairs."

He nods. "I've things to do yet."

"Okay." A myriad of expressions cross her face briefly before she leans in and kisses him on the cheek. "I'll see you after?"

His face is warm where her lips touched him. He wants to kiss her properly but he senses she doesn't want to cause a scene like yesterday. "Aye, I'll see you later."

She smiles briefly; it brightens her eyes and brings out the dimples in her cheeks. He lingers far too long after she's already turned and walked up into the main building.

-/-

Emma runs her fingers through her hair, watching the timer on her DVD burner with dislike. She'd sent everyone else home while she screwed around with the archiving, figuring she'd give herself some time to let Killian do whatever he needed to. She wasn't dressed for the stables today, not when Spencer had been threatening to come lurk around the broadcast department for observation. Which he had, to be fair, but it's annoying to have people hovering over her shoulder.

Her phone buzzes with a text. '_Bailing on me already, Swan? Bad form_.'

She rolls her eyes. '_Working. Got about 15 min left_.'

Though if the computer keeps stalling like this, it's probably going to be longer. She folds her arms on the desk and rests her head on them, closing her eyes. God, it's exhausting whenever some manager is around. She's only had the coffee Killian had gotten for her that morning. (After she'd fixed it, of course. And she doesn't want to think about how it made her heart flutter that he'd thought to bring her some at all, or that he'd even wanted to come and say hello first thing.) Really what she should do is go down the hall and see if there's any coffee left, but laying here is so much nicer…

Emma's startled out of a doze to hear footsteps in the hall. She sits up as Killian pokes his head through the door. "Bloody hell it's a sieve in here," he says. "How you lot don't get lost all the time I don't want to know."

She blinks stupidly, trying to get the cobwebs out of her brain. "What are you doing up here?"

He grins and steps into the room. "I said I'd see you after, didn't I?"

"Yeah, and -" She's cut off by the crush of his lips against hers. He takes advantage of her mouth being open and sweeps his tongue in. Emma moans a little, feeling the kiss all the way down to her toes. She reaches up and rakes her fingers through his hair, but when he sighs her name against her lips, she pulls away. He chases her, eyes heavy with longing. "Whoa, easy tiger," Emma says breathily, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Work, not the best place for - for this kind of thing."

"I woke up wanting you," he murmurs, resting his forehead against hers.

Emma feels her face heat up and what the hell is _that _about? "Oh," she manages to say. A hundred things are running through her mind - is he in this only for sex? No, he brought her coffee without any prompting, he couldn't be. Did he think because they'd done it once it was always on the table now? Did that bother her? Was _she_ in this only for sex, because honestly at the moment she could ask him to bend her over the table and he'd probably do it? She takes a breath to clear her head. "I, uh… I missed you too."

He stills slightly, making her wonder if she'd said the wrong thing, but the DVD burner pops open at that moment. Emma takes advantage of that to roll away from him and catch her breath. She _has_ missed him since seeing him yesterday, but how else is she supposed to respond to something as intense as '_I woke up wanting you_'? She writes the date on the disk and grabs the jewel case. When she turns, he's bracing himself on the desk. "Killian?" she asks warily.

"Swan, you're going to have to tell me when I've missed a memo," he says, not looking up. "I seem to be doing that a lot with you."

She frowns, unease creeping up in her chest. "I don't understand."

"I don't bloody understand it either. In the last twenty-four hours, has something changed?" He looks up at her now and she's a little taken aback to see he looks hurt. "Because I can't get my head on straight with you this week. Two days ago, we're shifting one another and then you're telling me never again. Yesterday, you kiss me twice anyway and ask if I want you, and I tell you yes. Today, you treat me cautiously and keep me at arm's length. So forgive me if I feel like I've missed something."

Emma's mouth drops open slightly. "Hey," she says, standing. She sees him tense up a little and realizes that, too, came out differently than she wanted it to. She shakes her head at herself, walks up to him, dropping the disk on the desk and gently turns him, holding his shoulders. "You've kinda caught me at bad times today," she tells him, her voice gentle. She can feel him relax a little. "I'm just - yesterday everyone saw us kissing. Your guys, Elsa - Ruby caught it on one of the cameras. I'm Ruby and Elsa's _boss_. I like them as friends, but here, I'm in charge. You're the boss for your jocks."

"You feel like we should keep contact here at a minimum, for propriety's sake," Killian says. Emma nods. His mouth works for a moment, then he says, "That's not all of it, is it?"

She blinks, fighting the urge to squirm under his knowing gaze. Damn, he can read her easily. She looks down briefly, then whispers, "I'm not - I'm just not good at this. I like you, I really do. I'm just awful at - at whatever this is. And you saying… what you said, that's really - it's intense. And I don't know how to work with that."

The word 'relationship' makes her itchy. She wants to scratch at her wrist again, but she knows he'll stop her. To her surprise, he folds his arms around her. "I think we should establish some ground rules," he says as she relaxes against him.

That makes her a little itchy too, defining this in any way, but part of her agrees. It'll save them a lot more conversations like this. "Okay," she says. "Like what?"

"Like being honest with each other."

She nods against his shoulder. "I liked that you brought me coffee this morning," she says, breathing in the scent of the stables that clings to him - most people wouldn't find such a thing comforting, but it makes her feel like she's at home on the farm. She also doesn't know how to say that the act of bringing her coffee made her feel special and wanted without sounding like a complete sap. "I liked seeing you first thing."

He breathes a laugh. "Okay, so how about we meet in the mornings then?"

"I'd like that."

"Can I see you after work?" Killian asks.

Emma hesitates a moment. "_Every _day?" She winces when he doesn't say anything. "I don't mean like - I have things I need to get done here. Sometimes I'm late. And I have my family and Henry -"

"Emma, I'm not asking you to move in," he interrupts, and the itch explodes across her skin, making her jump a little. She can imagine his eyebrows going up, wondering what kind of crazy person he'd gotten involved with. "Just for a moment, even. Check in with each other. We can work out _other_ arrangements when we feel the need to."

Emma smirks, imagining his eyebrows waggling at her suggestively. "I can work with that."

She pulls back to look at him, cupping his cheek. His smile is a little insecure, and guilt bites at her for making him feel this way. She leans in and he meets her halfway, their lips brushing against each other gently. He doesn't push her for more than this tender kiss, which makes her brave enough to do it instead. Emma pours reassurance into it, trying to tell him what she can't with words: _I care about you, I want you, I'm scared but I'm trying_. She starts to laugh when he pulls her hips snug against his, feeling his erection press against her through their clothes. He's smirking when she breaks the kiss off. "_Really_?" she asks.

"Race you to the Horn," he challenges.

She rolls her eyes. "I'd better get dinner out of this," Emma tells him, reaching down to shut the computers off and grab her purse.

"So demanding, Swan. All I request is that you leave the shoes on."

She laughs again as he grabs her by the hand and practically pulls her down the hall. She trots to catch up to him, matching him stride for stride as she turns her hand in his and laces their fingers together.

* * *

Emma can't remember the last time she was this happy. June passes in snapshot moments she treasures: meeting Killian in the mornings for coffee and a discrete kiss, coming home in the evenings to find Henry and Roland have turned the living room into Middle Earth. She checks on Princess and takes her for rides almost every day, with David teasing her about hovering every time. On Emma's days off, she helps Mary Margaret around the house or finds herself helping Belle with rehab down in the barns. She sees Henry less frequently than she'd like, but he's joined the cross country team and spends a lot of time with his new teammates getting ready for the training camp at the end of July. He seems happy, though, and that's all Emma can ask for.

Ruby does manage to wrangle them all for a couple of girl's nights out over the course of the month - _without_ having to resort to singing anything from a musical, thankfully. Anna joins them each time - she says Kristoff is visiting his mom in Colorado and doesn't have an answer when Emma asks about their current situation. When they're out, Emma doesn't miss the way Anna's eyes keep sliding towards her sister, keeping a careful eye on her. Emma also doesn't miss the way Elsa keeps giving her sister knowing glances in return.

She sees Regina less frequently than Henry, but Regina has taken on more casework this summer. She hears that Robin's left for his research trip from Mary Margaret on the day when Roland is a little less cheery than usual: even watching the old animated Lord of the Rings movies doesn't make him smile like they usually do.

One evening near the end of June, Emma's on her way upstairs when Regina comes to pick up Roland and Mary Margaret answers the door. Emma pauses on the steps when Regina comes in; while texting little updates to each other here and there is nice, she's missed actually getting to _talk_ to her friend. "Hey, stranger. I haven't even seen you at the track on Saturdays," she says as Roland latches onto Regina's legs for a hug.

Regina obliges her stepson, holding him tight. "I've been swamped, trying to get ahead on things. I figured that since Robin was away with his grad students, I could use the time wisely." Emma keeps her expression neutral as she sees the brief flash of loneliness on Regina's face. It's quickly replaced by a happy smile as Roland hugs her tight. Emma suddenly understands why Regina's working so much: she's probably using it as a distraction from missing her husband and sons. Regina's attention turns to Roland, asking him about his day, and Emma excuses herself upstairs to shower before bed.

She hasn't spent the night at Killian's yet. They're not exactly hiding this thing between them, but she hasn't told Mary Margaret or David about them. She doesn't feel like dealing with Mary Margaret's nosy questions or David's disapproving looks, so most of the time she makes up excuses about going out with Ruby or hanging out with Elsa and Anna. Then she spends a blissful hour or two in Killian's bed and leaves before anyone is the wiser.

But just because she hasn't spent the night doesn't mean she hasn't started leaving a few things at the Horn. After the last incident with tragic sex hair, she'd brought over a spare brush and left it on his dresser, ignoring the smirk he'd thrown her way. Once, after several mind-blowing orgasms, they'd taken it to the shower to clean up - and another round - and she'd made fun of the soap he had. She'd brought over some of her own shower supplies after that - and a hairdryer, because giving a blowjob in the shower doesn't keep a girl's hair dry. If Killian thinks anything of her putting some of her own things into his life and home, he has yet to mention it. She's not sure if she wants him to or not.

But as June fades into July, Emma really, truly can't remember a time she's been happier.

-/-

Emma passes Killian the water bottle before she collapses back onto her pillow, breathless and grinning. Killian tries not to chug it, not feeling like getting up to refill, but they've worked up quite a sweat. Even if it is July, he's damned if he'll waste money on air conditioning just yet. (And Emma doesn't seem to mind; she's told him she's used to warm summers from living in the attic at the Point.)

He passes the water back to her and lays back on the bed, tucking his arms behind his head. There's a warm breeze blowing through the open windows, ruffling the blue curtains Emma bought for him last week ("It won't kill you to have some color in this room, Jones," she'd said as he'd walked in on her hanging them up), and the crickets are noisy out in the yard. It's a peaceful night, one he hopes none of the overnight lads thinks to interrupt. Emma sighs as she puts the water bottle on the nightstand. "Five minutes and I should get going," she says with what sounds like regret, curling into his side.

"What time is it?" he asks drowsily.

Emma lifts her head slightly to peer at the clock. "Close to midnight."

She lays her head on his chest again and he lifts his head for a moment to drape one arm around her. Sometime in the last month, he's found it more and more difficult to be okay with her leaving. He knows her reasons - and agrees with them - but it doesn't make mornings alone in a too-big bed any easier. He often wonders how first-thing-in-the-morning-Emma is versus first-thing-at-work-Emma, what the differences are, how many times she hits the snooze on her alarm or if she's up first thing to get it over with. Her jaw cracks from how widely she yawns as she tucks herself against him further. "I need to go," she murmurs after a bit.

"It's late," he replies, just as quiet.

Her voice carries a hint of melancholy. "Yeah."

"You shouldn't drive when you're this tired," he continues, wondering if she'd be up for the thought that's come to him.

She breathes a laugh, the warm air tickling his skin. "I wonder whose fault that is."

Killian grins. "You were a willing participant, love," he points out. He shoos away his nerves and continues, "However, did you know it's just as dangerous to drive while tired as it is to drive while intoxicated?"

Emma hums a little, hooking one of her legs around his, her toes pressing into his calf. "I think I've heard that before. Are you suggesting something?"

He wonders if she can hear how his heart speeds up as he reaches over with his free hand to tuck some of her hair behind her ear. "You could stay." Killian can't see her expression in the scant light, but she's gone still in his arms. "Where does your family think you are, love?"

"Anna and Elsa's," Emma admits.

"Well, there you are then. They'd offer you houseroom if it was too late," he says amicably.

She doesn't say anything for a while, and his dismay grows with each passing minute. He shouldn't have said anything, it's pushing the limits on this thing they have between them, she's going to tense up and walk out - "Okay," she says finally, just as his heart feels like it's going to sink through his chest.

"Come again?" He can't quite believe his ears.

She actually giggles, and that more than anything lifts the burden from his heart. "I said okay. But you might regret that in the morning when there's no toothbrush for me."

Killian's suddenly very glad for the dark, for surely the happy grin on his face might frighten her away. "I have a spare, Swan."

So now, in addition to the other little toiletries she's started leaving around his quarters, Emma has a toothbrush. Killian realizes with a start that for someone who seemed quite against defining this thing between them, she's begun to set up the foundations of something more. Little pieces of herself making a space for themselves here and there in his life - even the _curtains_. He stares at the toothbrush sitting in the holder after they trade places in the bathroom, leaning in near his own. When he's finished, a warm feeling settles over him as he takes in this simple bit of domesticity: a lingering scent of her soaps in the air (she has a habit of forgetting to close the lids) and two toothbrushes on the counter together.

Somehow in the last month, he's gone from wanting to get her out of his system to wanting more of her in his life.

He pauses in the doorway to the bedroom, drinking in a different sight. Emma's curled around the pillow that's become hers, the bedsheet mostly covering her for modesty's sake and leaving her long legs free. Her hair spills around her head, dark on this mostly moonless night. The pull to join her in bed is only slightly stronger than the urge to remain awake and be sure she isn't some kind of dream sent to torment him with a reality he cannot have.

Killian slips into bed behind her carefully so as not to disturb her. He fits her back to his front, draping an arm around her loosely. She sighs and relaxes into his embrace, and the warm feeling inside of him intensifies.

He presses a kiss to the back of her head, murmuring a good night, but she doesn't respond, already asleep. Sleep eludes him, but he finds he doesn't mind as long as she's there with him. It's new and it's terrifying to look down at the woman in his arms and only be capable of one thought, the one thing that would frighten her the most: _I think I'm in love with you._

-/-

On Wednesday, Emma calls Killian while watching Leo and Roland jump through the sprinkler she set up. Mary Margaret's teaching a riding class class, so Emma's volunteered to keep the munchkins entertained - and if she's being honest, she's hoping they've tired themselves into a nap soon by running around in the heat of the day. In the meantime, shrieking and jumping through the cold water seems to be distraction enough for the both of them. Killian answers on the third ring, "Afternoon, love."

"Hey. So remember that bet we made back in May?" Emma asks, stretching her feet in front of her on the porch steps.

"No," he says, dragging out the vowel. "What bet might that be?"

She smiles. "The one you suggested before the Derby, when you held my hand and didn't let me in on what it was we were betting on."

"Ah, of course. So what's the collection, Swan?" he asks, his tone suggesting he has quite a few ideas on how she should use up her win.

"Down, boy. I was kind of hoping you'd want to come out with me on Friday night," she says, grimacing a little at her lack of tact. Leo yells her name and she waves to show she's watching how he jumps over the sprinkler.

She can hear the amusement in Killian's voice when he asks, "What are the lads up to?"

"Sprinkler."

"Indeed," he says while Roland shouts for her to watch him too. Killian laughs, apparently hearing. "Well, Swan, I'm inclined to say that you needn't waste your winnings on asking me for a night out."

Emma frowns slightly. "But I -"

"Emma, we're… you and me," he says, clearly fumbling over the wording of it. "As much as I delight in your company in the privacy of my home, I'm just as pleased to do so in public."

She laughs. "Well, I hope we aren't doing any of that in public."

He seems to realize his mistake and laughs with her. "I mean, I'm happy to go out with you."

Emma hesitates a moment, then says, "Well, it's with David and Mary Margaret and Leo, and some of the others might be meeting us…"

She realizes she probably should have opened with that when she hears a notable difference in how happy he made himself sound. "Ah. So the bet collection would be for me to keep my hands off of you all night and pretend we aren't… us."

She closes her eyes for a moment. She wouldn't have put it that way, probably softening the edge to it, but he's hit the nail on the head. "Sorry. I understand if you don't -"

"No, it's fine," Killian interrupts, though his tone hints that it isn't. She'll have to make it up to him, she decides. "What's the plan?"

Emma leans back on her free hand, crossing her ankles, watching the boys chase each other around the yard. "Well, there's this festival going on for Independence Day…"

* * *

"You look nervous," Mary Margaret says as they get out of the car. "Why do you look nervous?"

Emma blinks and mentally cusses herself out, wondering if that's her tell. "I don't look nervous. Why would I be nervous?"

Mary Margaret peers at her just as Leo launches himself out of the car seat David has just unlatched. She promptly forgets Emma and goes chasing after her son, leaving Emma to internally heave a sigh of relief. David slings his arm around her shoulders. "I know you might see some people you'd rather not tonight, but we'll have our friends here," he promises. "It'll be way different than the thing back in April."

Emma would prefer to forget that night had happened at all, but no such luck. She's only glad that her brother and sister-in-law have decided that any weirdness on Emma's part can be chalked up to another ghosts-from-the-past event. And that's true, though she's pretty sure that at a town festival she's more likely to see old bullies (who will undoubtedly have gotten to that point where they've forgotten that they were once bullies) and acquaintances from high school than she is anyone significant like Gold. She can handle those people better than her ex's maniac father.

There are carnival rides and rigged midway games lining the town's center, effectively shutting the sleepy Storybrooke down for the weekend. Food trucks offering everything from pizza to kimchi burgers to deep-fried everything are spaced out between the rides and games. Emma's almost immediately drawn to the fried dough carts, the smell of cinnamon and chocolate dipping sauce lingering heavy in the humid air, but Leo's tugging her hand. "Aunt Emma, you _promised _we'd ride the scrambled eggs!" he insists.

It takes her a full minute to understand that he means the Scrambler. "Oh, kiddo, it's not -"

"Scrambled eggs? Sounds delightful." Killian's lilt comes from her left, and Emma has to work fast to stop the grin that wants to come out whenever he's near.

Leo bounds up to Killian, grabbing his hand too. "'Ian, come on, you can come too!"

Emma's eyebrows go up at Leo's nickname for him. She knows David brings Leo to the track some days to give Mary Margaret a break, which gives him plenty of time to be around the usual crew in the stables. Emma's curious if that's why Leo's acting like they're thick as thieves. Killian looks surprised at how forcefully Leo pulls him along. Mary Margaret's hiding a smile. "Hello, Killian," she says.

"Ma'am - err, Mary Margaret. Dave," Killian says, nodding to each of them in turn. "And Miss Swan, the whole family's here." Emma arches an eyebrow at him. He's definitely going to blow it if he keeps that up. There's a flash of a wink at her before he turns back to her brother. "Is this all of us?"

"No, Victor said he and Ruby would be by soon, then that should be everyone," David says.

Leo takes hold of Emma's hand again and pulls her and Killian with as much strength as he can. "Come on," he whines, dragging out the vowels. "Let's go on the ride!"

Emma glances at Mary Margaret, who smiles a little too innocently and shoos them off. Emma sighs. "I think we just got roped into babysitting," she mutters in Killian's direction.

He glances at her and the smirk he's wearing sends shivers down her spine.

They don't end up babysitting Leo the _whole_ night, but it helps when Leo only wants to ride things with her and Killian. Leo sits between them on the Scrambler, shrieking with laughter when Killian 'accidentally' slides too far over and squashes him against her - and as a result, her against the other wall. A little later on, Killian has to hunch over a little to make it through the the fun house. At the end of it, they have to actually pick Leo up and take him away from the mirrors or else he'll probably stay there all night. On the Ferris wheel, Leo buries his face in Emma's lap, because of course it's only after they start he realizes he's afraid of heights. Killian tries to get Leo to look, to understand it's not so scary because they're safe, but it doesn't quite work. When Killian gives up and takes the opportunity to put his arm around her, she starts thinking this might have been some devious plot hatched by Mary Margaret. As they come back down and the lack Killian's arm around her leaves her a little cooler, Emma decides that's not the case. Even her meddling sister-in-law can't have stooped so low as to try to use her son as a matchmaker.

At least that's what Emma's hoping.

She does give herself an imaginary point when she drags the boys over to the fried dough stand again and she delights in introducing both Killian and Leo to churros. "It's cinnamon and chocolate and completely unhealthy and _amazing_," she informs them, breaking off pieces and handing them out.

Mary Margaret hovers nearby with a stack of napkins - the chocolate sauce has 'disaster' written all over it with Leo nearby. David's too absorbed in a conversation with Victor to pay too much mind. Only Ruby notices when Killian reaches over and thumbs a bit of chocolate sauce from the corner of Emma's mouth, licking it off suggestively. Emma shifts a little, squeezing her legs a little tighter together to calm the fire sparking to life between them. When she looks away from his heated gaze, Ruby catches her eye next and grins wolfishly, winking.

After the sun's gone down, Leo's clamoring to play some of the games. Emma gladly releases him into the custody of his parents, opting to sit at a table for a bit instead. Killian joins her while Ruby 'helpfully' drags Victor down to another food truck. "Tireless, isn't he?" Killian asks, nodding to where Leo's being instructed on throwing darts at balloons.

"I hope he'll stay awake for fireworks," Emma says.

He rests his arm on the table just behind her, his fingers lightly grazing her arm every once in a while, sending goosebumps rippling up and down her skin. She wants him to put his arm around her, she realizes. She wants to sit all cozied up next to him while they watch David lift Leo to stand on the counter to throw better. She wants to get a thing of french fries and split it with Killian and maybe make him feed her one or two, and she discovers that she doesn't care who sees or what they might say about it.

It's driving her crazy to have him so near to her but still on the other side of the walls she's put up - not just for the evening, but the ones she's spent years building against being hurt. Emma's not sure whether she's relieved or terrified to realize how much he's broken down those walls, how much she's grown to care about him.

So she scoots a little closer on the bench, their thighs resting against each other. She sees him glance at her briefly in confusion, but neither of them say anything about it. Killian's hand comes to rest against her arm, fingers drawing patterns on her skin, and it's nerve-wracking and wonderful all at once.

Emma really, really likes this - _him_.

When her family turns and walks back to them, Killian's on his feet and crouches down to admire the stuffed banana Leo's won. (Emma admires it too, but privately thinks the face's expression looks like it's been indulging in some illegal substances. When she catches David's eye, the indulgent roll of his eyes tells her he thinks so too.)

They stay a few steps behind David, Mary Margaret, and Leo as they walk down the midway. Emma musters her courage and hooks her pinky finger around Killian's. She can see him giving her that look again, but all she says - loud enough for her brother to hear - is, "I really want some fries."

Half an hour later, bogged down with fries and lemon shakes, the five of them meet up with Ruby and Victor to find a spot to sit for the fireworks. "Gimme," Ruby insists, stealing a couple of Emma's fries.

"You're such a mooch," Emma tells her.

At the same time, Leo plops down in the grass and declares, "I can't walk _anymore_, Mama!"

So that settles that.

Emma sits close to Killian, stealing some of his fries when Ruby's cleaned her out. "Oi!" he cries out in dismay as she swipes a particularly wiggly one from right under his fingers.

She grins, feeling light and giddy and _happy_, and bites it in half. The look of sheer exasperation he gives her is endearing, and she offers the other half of the fry as an olive branch. Killian reaches for it, but she says, "Nope, open up."

His eyebrows go up, but he obliges. Uncaring as to who sees, Emma feeds it to him before she snatches a few more fries for herself. She really, really likes this, she decides. She reaches for her lemon shake when Ruby steals that from her too, but when Emma opens her mouth to yell at her, Ruby makes a very obvious eye roll towards Killian's drink.

_Definitely buy Ruby a drink or three the next night out_, Emma decides. The woman knows how to wingman - or make an assist or whatever it is.

Killian's playful irritation with her for stealing his drink makes it all the better. He steals it right back from her, fishes an ice cube out, and tosses it at her. He then proceeds to hoard the rest of his fries as punishment, pushing her away and literally keeping her at arm's length when he eats. She laughs like she hasn't in years - maybe ever, she can't remember. Emma likes teasing him, flirting in this annoying way she probably should have had her fill of about ten years earlier, but she'd never gotten to. She feels better - more grounded, more like she can breathe freely and have _fun_ \- with Killian than she ever had with Neal, or even Walsh.

So when the fireworks start and she's pretty sure everyone else is enamored with the lights and sounds in the sky, Emma leans over and kisses Killian. "Swan," he murmurs against her lips after a moment. "Not that I mind, but your family -"

"I don't care," she whispers fiercely.

Killian returns the kiss with enthusiasm, reaching up to cup the side of her face gently. Emma's not sure if Mary Margaret's gasp is from the fireworks display or the very public display of affection.

And happily, Emma really, really doesn't care.

* * *

**Thank you for your patience with me, my mind wanted to write literally everything but this chapter. Also, I wrote the first side-story for this, called "Grocery Stick". It's Kristanna fluff and has a lot of hockey in it!**

**I want to say an ENORMOUS thank you to my beta, idoltina, for continuing to be the best beta and friend I could ask for. This entire story would not exist without her.**

**I also want to thank Philyra for being a wonderful friend and sounding board on ideas and helping me work out knotty plotty problems.**


	14. July 21

Emma awakens not to her alarm, but to the sounds of construction. She groans, shoving her head under her pillow to try and drown out the racket, but then she's too hot. With an aggravated sigh, she rolls over and checks the clock. 7:15am. "Perfect," she mumbles, rolling onto her back. They couldn't have waited another hour for her alarm to go off.

David had mentioned the other night that the barn renovations would be starting this week. She definitely remembers that. She just hadn't thought that they'd start so _early._ She tries to block it out and ignore it as best she can, hoping to doze a little more, but now she's rolled around too much and the sheets are too hot. "Fuck."

(Later, after she's had coffee and a shower, she'll realize that in the middle of July it's smart to start early and avoid most of the heat. For now, though, she's tired and grumpy and considering spending the next two weeks at Killian's. Which really doesn't sound half bad at all.)

Emma gets ready for work and heads downstairs; the attic might be sweltering even at eight in the morning, but downstairs is only slightly cooler. The rambling old farmhouse doesn't have air conditioning, which isn't terrible, but it makes for discomfort on humid days like this one. "If it doesn't storm today, it will tomorrow," she says in lieu of greeting, glad she's swept her frizzing hair into a ponytail for the day.

"You're up early," Mary Margaret comments.

"Yeah, like I could sleep with all that going on outside," Emma grumbles, opening the fridge. Mary Margaret makes an amused sound and stirs her tea. Emma glances over her shoulder at the teacup. "Isn't it a little hot for that?"

Her sister-in-law shrugs. "I'm not feeling great today. I'm hoping this settles my stomach."

"Whatever you have, please don't give it to me. I can't afford to get sick," Emma says, settling for cereal. She wonders if she can convince Killian to try iced coffee today; she could stop on her way to the track and get something for them both. Lord knows he puts enough sugar in his regular coffee.

Mary Margaret laughs for some reason and Emma chalks it up to being up too early. She shoots Killian a text, shoveling cereal in her mouth the whole time. She glances up to see Mary Margaret watching her with a knowing smile. "What?"

Mary Margaret smiles wider, her green eyes sparkling with mischief as she raises her teacup to her mouth. "How are things with you and Killian?"

Oh God, it's too early for this. "Fine," Emma says warily. In the two weeks since the festival, she's not sure who was more happy about her and Killian being open about their… togetherness: Mary Margaret, Ruby, or Elsa and Anna. It's been an almost non-stop barrage of affectionate teasing, insisting on double dating, or questions that are _slightly_ too intrusive for comfort. "Just asking about coffee."

"I'm glad you're happy," Mary Margaret says. "You should invite him over for dinner tonight."

Emma frowns. "Tonight? Why, what's special about tonight?"

Her sister-in-law gives her a too-patient look. "You didn't forget about Leo's birthday, did you? Family tonight, my mother's coming up from Boston later, his friends are coming over on Saturday?"

Emma winces - she didn't _forget_, she has a gift upstairs, but she'd definitely forgotten about plans that night. "Right. Sorry. Yeah, but if it's family then why - oh." She breaks off, feeling her cheeks warm as she realizes why. She looks down at her cereal instead. "It's not that serious," she mumbles. She's not sure who she's trying to convince.

She hears Mary Margaret hum in disbelief. "Leo loves him. And you're making Killian a part of your life, so we're going to make sure you both know he's welcome here any time," Mary Margaret says.

Emma's heart starts racing the second Mary Margaret says 'you'. She hardly hears the rest of Mary Margaret's sentence, her brain going into overdrive. Emma cares about Killian, but _love_? When she processes the rest of what her sister-in-law said, she takes a deep breath to calm down. No, of course Mary Margaret hadn't been suggesting Emma loves him. She tends to wear rose-colored glasses, but even Mary Margaret should know how guarded Emma is with her feelings. Emma shakes her head a little, then says, "Oh. Well… thanks. I don't know if he'll be able to, but I'll mention it."

She glances up and thinks Mary Margaret's smile looks a little forced. Emma's heart rate picks up again. "Hey, what's wrong -" she manages to say just before Mary Margaret pushes herself away from the table roughly and runs over to the sink, reaching it just in time to empty her stomach into it.

Emma quickly loses the rest of her appetite. The doorbell rings and she gets up, eager to get away from the sounds of heaving, and goes to answer. It's Regina, dropping a sleepy Roland off. "Emma, you're… awake," Regina says with some surprise, and Emma wonders how badly her makeup is already dripping off her face and if her dark circles are visible.

"Yeah. Sorry, Mary Margaret is…" Emma briefly wonders how to phrase it, then decides direct is best. Also because she's not awake enough for tact. "She's puking her guts up in the sink."

There's concern etched on Regina's face as she pushes past Emma to come in, Roland half a step behind. "Emma, can I watch TV?" he asks, rubbing his eyes.

"Sure thing, kiddo. Leo will be down in a little while," she tells him, but thinks it might not be a bad thing if Roland falls back asleep on the couch and Leo remains in bed until they figure out a game plan. Mary Margaret being sick is probably not going to go over well with Regina, and David will need to be in and out of the house all day.

Roland heads into the living room and Emma goes back into the kitchen, where Regina's rubbing soothing circles on Mary Margaret's back, talking to her softly. Mary Margaret is bracing herself on the counter. "What's wrong?" Emma asks, hanging back a bit.

Regina points to the cupboard with her free hand. "Glass for water."

Emma bristles a little at her tone. "Okay, but that doesn't tell me what's wrong," she says, opening the cupboard and getting a glass as Regina asks.

Regina ignores her, merely nodding slightly when Emma hands her the glass. "Were you sick at all before today?" she asks Mary Margaret, who shakes her head in response. Regina rinses out the sink, then hands Mary Margaret a full glass of water. "Drink," Regina orders.

Mary Margaret rinses her mouth and spits, then downs the glass. "I didn't get morning sickness at all when I was pregnant with Leo," she says, her voice a little raspy.

Emma starts to ask what the hell that had to do with anything, then realizes exactly what it had to do with everything. "You're pregnant?" she asks softly.

Mary Margaret glances over her shoulder, smiling weakly. "I took a test last week, something felt off. I have an appointment to be sure next week, but this?" She pauses to refill her glass and drink more. Then she continues dryly, "This is proof enough for me."

Regina leans against the counter, folding her arms across her chest. Emma's more than a little curious when she notices that Regina's smile seems almost forced. "Then I suppose congratulations are in order," Regina tells Mary Margaret, her tone wry. "You're probably having a girl."

Emma tilts her head a little, her nose wrinkling in confusion. Regina's tone doesn't match the almost motherly way she's been hovering around Mary Margaret. "What makes you say that?" Emma asks.

Regina shrugs. "Different symptoms. I wouldn't know, though, just old wives' tales." Her tone is dismissive, signaling the end of any further questions along that line.

Emma frowns thoughtfully as she watches the coolly observant way Regina watches over Mary Margaret. Mary Margaret remains at the sink a bit longer, then seems to decide that the nausea has passed and goes back to her tea. "Are you going to be okay?" Emma asks. She barely remembers Mary Margaret's last pregnancy, though to be fair most of it had taken place at Boston U. Leo had been a happy accident: they had the photos of Mary Margaret in full graduation gear and a baby bump to prove it. Emma suspects that their shotgun wedding and instant family is the other reason why her brother and sister-in-law had waited a few years before adding to it. She shifts a little uncomfortably, folding her arms across her chest. "I dunno, do you like… need me to stay home and help with the boys?"

Mary Margaret shakes her head, draining her teacup quickly. "No, I'll be okay. They can keep themselves occupied, I think, if I get bad again. And my mother will be here in a few hours, she'll be able to help." Emma nods as her phone buzzes loudly on the table. Mary Margaret smiles. "Go," she says, looking between Regina and Emma. "Both of you. I'll be fine. Women have been pregnant and taking care of kids at the same time for thousands of years, there's no reason I can't, too."

Emma gives her a questioning look, silently asking if she's sure, and her sister-in-law nods. Emma grabs her phone from the table and heads to the mud room for her purse and shoes. She hears Regina say her goodbyes as Emma slips out the back. David's coming up the lawn and she pauses on the way to the Bug. "Hey, you're staying here today, right?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Good morning to you too, and I am. Why?"

She suspects David doesn't know Mary Margaret is pregnant yet and doesn't want to be the one to spill the beans - she imagines it might be slightly better received than the last time. Instead she says, "Mary's not feeling the best, so maybe keep the boys out of her hair today."

David's brows come together as he looks up towards the house, which confirms her suspicions. "Is she okay?"

Emma grabs his wrist as he starts to head up to the porch, not waiting for an answer. When he looks back at her, she's touched by the concern etched on his face. She smiles a little and loosens her grip to slips her hand into his, squeezing it reassuringly. "Hey. She'll be fine. It's… she says she can handle the boys. Just make sure she's not overdoing it."

David looks away for a moment and nods once. He squeezes her hand back and lets go. "I'll see you for dinner later."

Emma grins as she starts walking backwards down the lawn. "Eva's coming up today, do you need me to pick up anything at the liquor store?" He rolls his eyes and she laughs. "See you tonight, David."

* * *

It's a habit at this point, meeting him down at the stables after work is over for the day. It was a good day, no one was late, the races going off without a hitch. Emma's smile could probably light the whole damn stable when she saw Killian - she could hear him say those exact words now with that goofy, sappy look on his face, the one that used to scare her but now only made her nervous if she thought about it for too long. His hands automatically grip her waist as they meet and he leans down to kiss her gently. "Hello, Swan," he says when they part.

"Hey. How were things on your end today?" she asks, smiling as he reaches up and tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"All was well today, thankfully. Always pleasant to start the week with ease," he tells her. Her breath catches in her throat at the way he smiles softly at her, his eyes lingering on hers before dropping to her lips and back up again. Sometimes she thought he looked at her like she created the world and it scared her; other times, like now, she's pretty sure he'd never notice anything else going on around them as long as she was standing in front of him.

Emma swallows hard and forces away the fear starting to creep into her chest. "That's good. So, uh. Did you have any plans for dinner tonight?"

He chuckles. "Shouldn't I be the one asking you out? You did, after all, ask for our first excursion as well."

She smiles indulgently, rolling her eyes a little. "I don't think it counts when it's with my brother, his wife, a five-year old, and two of my coworkers, Killian. And it's not… well, Leo's turning six today."

"Ah, then many happy returns to the lad."

Emma reaches up and lets her fingers dance over the one spot she knows he's ticklish. He laughs and squirms out of her reach. "You can tell him yourself," she says, "if you come to dinner tonight. Family only."

Her cheeks feel like they're on fire as he asks, "Family? Then why…" His eyes widen as the implications hit. "Aye," he says, clearing his throat. He's giving her that created-the-world look now, the one that makes her knees weak even though she wants to run away as far and fast as she can. "If it's no trouble, then…"

She reaches up and cups his cheek, smiling when he leans into her touch. "Dinner's in an hour."

"I'll see you then," he murmurs, leaning down to capture her lips one more time. She pulls away with some regret, giving him a promising look for later as she leaves.

In the car, she takes a minute to calm down, breathing deeply. Her legs are still jelly-like from the intense look he'd given her, her lips burning from their kisses, no matter how chaste. He's like no one else she's ever been with - her _reactions_ to him are nothing like she's ever experienced before - and it frightens and soothes her at the same time. Emma pulls out of the parking lot, wishing driving wasn't so second-nature to her so that it could serve as some sort of distraction from her thoughts.

She wonders what he really thinks about being invited to this family-only dinner. The look had said enough, that he was overwhelmingly pleased about it, but the implications of it? Part of her is scared that Leo will get too attached, if something goes wrong; she wonders if pregnancy hasn't already scrambled Mary Margaret's brains to invite a guy her sister-in-law has been sleeping with for six weeks to a family dinner.

_Is it really Leo you're worried about getting too attached?_ the traitorous part of her brain asks. Emma ignores that voice. She's good at that.

When she slows near the Point's long drive, she can see the day's mail practically overflowing out of the mailbox. She pulls over and yanks the stack out, tossing it in the passenger's seat, and turns into the drive. She can see Eva's car near the house and a blessed lack of construction trucks near the barns - maybe later Emma will have the courage to ask if she can stay with Killian the next couple of nights.

She cuts the ignition and grabs her purse and the mail, heading up to the house. Emma flicks through the mail as she goes inside. "I'm home!" she calls distractedly.

Most of the mail is bills or business stuff for David or Mary Margaret, but there's one plain envelope addressed to her. Emma tosses the rest onto the hall table as she looks at it; she doesn't recognize the return address, but the handwriting is vaguely familiar. Something in her brain goes off, making her edgy, but it's not until she turns it over that she freezes. Her blood feels like ice coursing through her veins, she itches all over, her heart is racing a thousand miles an hour, and her first instinct is to light the damn envelope on fire and find the nearest bottle of liquor. She barely restrains herself as she breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth, trying to calm the panic that claws through every part of her body. _He's gone. He's never coming back. I never have to be around him again. I never have to try and be _enough _for him again._

She can tell herself what she likes, but it doesn't change the bold words stamped on the back of the envelope: _Mailed from a State Correctional Institution_.

-/-

Killian bounds up the stairs to the Nolans' front porch, rapping on the screen door. It's been a fine day; topping it off with dinner with the woman he loves (and her family) makes him light on his feet. He's grinning when an older woman answers the door; she looks over him curiously as she opens it, unsure of why he's here. The cautious squint and slight tilt of her head gives her away as a relative of Mary Margaret's. "Can I help you?" the woman asks.

"Killian Jones, ma'am," he says, sticking out his hand. "I'm a friend of the family, and Emma's…" he hesitates a moment, fumbling for the right word. _Inamorato, admirer? Concubine, gentleman caller... Gigolo? Suitor? Paramour? Damn._ "Partner."

He hopes Emma isn't around to hear and kick his arse for it. The woman relaxes into a smile and shakes his hand. "My apologies, Mr. Jones, I didn't know Emma was seeing anyone. It's nice to meet you. I'm Eva Blanchard, Mary Margaret's mother. Come in."

He follows her in and hears Mary Margaret calling for her mother's assistance with something. Eva apologizes for leaving him so abruptly, but he waves her off. He toes off his boots, peeking around the corner into the living room to see Leo and Roland having at it with toy trucks. There's light footsteps on the stairs. Killian turns to see Emma and he immediately frowns, noting how pale she looks and the nervous, tense way she's glancing at him and away. "Love, what's the matter?" he asks, reaching for her. She tenses when his hand comes to rest on her shoulder and his frown deepens. She hasn't done that in months. "Emma?"

"It's nothing," she says, her voice a little gruff.

"It's not," he insists, and she flinches when his other hand moves to rest on her hip. "Especially when you do that." Her eyes widen and he notices how glassy they are, as if she's been staring listlessly at something. Killian swallows, worried at this complete turnaround of her mood since he saw her not a full hour ago. "Sweetheart, tell me what's wrong."

She shakes her head. "I can't -" she whispers, breaking off and swiping at her eyes furiously.

He grinds his teeth together in frustration, but he knows her by now. He needs to give her space to breathe in this, let her come to him when she's ready. "Alright. I'm here if you need me," he says softly, and he kisses her forehead.

She relaxes into his touch, which eases some of the worry that whatever was upsetting her had been caused by _him_. Carefully, he encircles her in his arms and she returns the gesture as she leans on him. She fits perfectly against him, though he wishes the circumstances were better; when he inhales, he detects a hint of her fruity soap. The familiar scent of her soothes him, which only makes him wish he could ease her worries further than this small bit of physical comfort.

She pulls back after a long moment and kisses him. "Hi," she says softly.

"Hello."

Emma's smile is on the watery side, but further conversation is halted when the lads in the living room finally take notice of them. "Hi Mr. Killian!" Roland calls, grinning.

Leo comes bounding over and tugs on Killian's arm. "Uncle 'Ian, come play monster trucks with us!"

Killian's heart stutters in his chest as he feels Emma tense in his arms. "I didn't tell him to say that," she whispers fiercely.

"Never said you did, love," he murmurs faintly. He releases Emma and crouches down to be at Leo's eye level. The lad's watching him with a grin full of adoration. "Maybe in a bit we'll do monster trucks, lad," Killian tells Leo. "Can I ask why you've chosen to call me uncle?"

Leo shrugs. "You kissed Aunt Emma. Aunts are supposed to kiss uncles," he says, his tone suggesting it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Killian's eyes widen a bit as he feels Emma take a step back. It's overwhelming and painful at once, calling to mind his brother and the family he would never have. This is a title he never thought he'd claim. "You're right, of course," he says, though he's not sure how to dissuade the use of it - or if he truly _wants_ to.

"Are you gonna have a baby?" Roland asks.

It's a miracle Emma doesn't flee the premises immediately, though he can tell from the quick step back that she wants to. Killian, meanwhile, barks a laugh. "Why do you ask?"

Roland shrugs. "Aunts and uncles are mommies and daddies. Mommies and daddies have babies. You don't have a baby."

It's Emma who finally clears her throat, sounding like she'd rather be anywhere else in the world as she says, "What about your dad and Regina? They don't have a baby."

Roland looks at her incredulously. "Of course not!" he exclaims - if he knew the word, Killian's quite certain the statement would have been punctuated with '_duh_'. "They got _me_, why do they need a _baby_?"

Emma chuckles humorlessly. "If they don't need a baby, then neither do we. Uh, Killian, I'll be back in a minute, I need to go grab… something."

She hurries up the stairs before he can say anything. Leo looks up the stairs for a second before he asks, "Can we play monster trucks now?"

Mary Margaret finds them twenty minutes later smashing the larger trucks into Hotwheels cars. "Killian!" she says with some surprise. "I didn't know you were here. Leo, Roland, go wash your hands for dinner."

"Your mother let me in," he explains as they race off to obey. "I've been preoccupied here, however. The lads have been quite accommodating in sharing their toys." He grins cheekily and earns an indulgent smile in return.

"Is Emma upstairs?"

He blinks. "I suppose so, if she's not with you. She seemed upset earlier."

She frowns a little. "I wasn't aware if something was wrong… Can you call her down? She'll be in the attic."

Not for the first time that evening, Killian's pulse quickens. He'd never ventured further than the first floor, let alone to Emma's private domain at the top of the house. He nods once as Mary Margaret goes to herd Leo and Roland into the dining room and gets to his feet. He ascends the stairs carefully, listening for any sign of Emma coming down. She's very private, he knows, and he's unsure how she might react to him. There's a door ajar to the right of the stairs, and he seems more stairs behind them. "Emma?" he calls once.

"Up here," she calls back, sounding despondent.

Hesitantly, he walks up the stairs, the wood creaking announcing his arrival. Emma's laying on her bed, staring at the ceiling. "Swan?"

"Hey," she says, not looking at him.

Killian takes a moment to look around the peaked room. There's windows on all four of the walls - sitting low, as most of the walls are actually the roof. There's a desk of sorts, with an old laptop sitting on it, in an alcove with one of them off to the right, a few boxes stacked on the landing immediately on his right. Her bed and nightstand are directly across from the stairs, the bed nestled under and running parallel to the window, a threadbare rug covering the wood floor directly between him and the bed. Her dresser, wardrobe, and mirror are haphazardly strewn with clothing and shoes and jewelry to his left, hiding the window and its alcove, and a rolling chair that's probably normally at the desk sits in front of the dresser. There's little in the way of books or decoration, past a few trinkets here or there.

For all that it's Emma's domain, there's little personalization here - just necessity - and it makes his heart ache.

"May I come in?" he asks, still standing on the second-to-last stair.

She finally looks over and a small smile blooms on her face. "What, are you some kind of vampire? You need permission to cross the threshold?"

Killian rolls his eyes, smiling. "No, but it's good form to ask permission to enter a lady's domain." She nods and he takes the last step into the room. He crosses it in two strides and kneels down next to her. "It's dinner time," he tells her.

"Yeah, kinda figured that. Sorry I kinda ditched you down there, I just… needed a minute. Or thirty," she says softly.

"Hey," he says, startling her gaze towards him. He runs his fingers down her arm to clasp her hand. "It's all right. I'm worried about you, but it's all right."

She smiles quickly, letting it fade. Her gaze drifts over towards the desk. "Do you… do you mind if I spend the next couple of nights at your place? They're working on one of the barns in the mornings and it's really loud and -"

"Emma," Killian interrupts gently. "You don't have to explain yourself to me. I'm always happy to have you. And to give you somewhere to sleep," he adds, grinning as she swats at him in exasperation.

"My hero," she drawls as she sits up.

Dinner's surprisingly uneventful. Emma puts on a good face, dutifully ignoring the concerned looks from Mary Margaret and Killian while she does her best to drive out any thoughts of the letter that's sitting on her desk in the attic. She chats with Regina instead when she notices how withdrawn the other woman has been since she arrived. In doing so, Emma becomes the wall Regina verbally bounces problems off of - she knows how Regina is, just needing someone to talk at to unwind, and Emma is quite content with not having to say much as Regina goes on about her open cases. Henry's not here and that hurts a little, but when asked Regina says there's a team bonding dinner at the cross country coach's house. "It's good he's finding more interests," Regina says. "And with kids his own age. In person, anyway, if the one-sided Xbox conversations I hear mean anything. For all Scarlet might act like a teenager, he's still twice Henry's age."

Killian laughs at that. "I won't tell him you said that, Mrs. Hood."

"Oh, no, I insist that you do."

Emma cracks a smile. David catches her eye and smiles encouragingly, but she's relieved to see there's a little worry in his gaze as well. Regina doesn't seem overly concerned, though, and she lives with Henry. Eva shifts the conversation gracefully, asking Killian about his work, and Emma loses what small opportunity she might have had to bring up her concerns about Henry - though she would have risked interrupting an otherwise pleasant meal.

She goes to help Mary Margaret bring in the cake after dinner, David and Eva taking care of dishes. "I'm staying with Killian for a few days while the barn's being worked on," Emma says casually, piling extra forks onto the paper plates.

Mary Margaret raises an eyebrow. "Okay," she says, but Emma knows that high pitch of her voice. It means she's had a thought and she's not quite sure if Emma's going to like hearing it or not.

"What?" she asks flatly. It's not about the letter, she knows that much. She stashed it away before anyone could ask.

Mary Margaret shakes her head, wide-eyed. "Nothing! You can have an adult sleepover if you want to!"

"_Okay_, and that's my cue to leave before I feel the need to hit someone," David announces, shutting the dishwasher. "Are you feeling alright?" he asks, taking the cake tray from his wife, kissing her on the cheek as he did so.

"Much better than I was this morning," she says, grinning. "Thanks to _someone_ hovering around me all afternoon."

He kisses her again, then gives Emma a stern look that strongly reminds her of his father before heading back into the dining room. Mary Margaret giggles as Emma rolls her eyes. "He never changes," Emma says, annoyed.

"He cares about you, Emma," Mary Margaret says, putting her hand on Emma's arm. "No matter how old you two get, you'll always be his little sister."

"He's a month older than me!" Emma protests.

"And he'll never let you forget it," Mary Margaret teases, laughing.

It's not until she's helping cut the cake that Emma realizes that her family successfully derailed her from pressing Mary Margaret on why she reacted the way she did. She's not sure if David had done it intentionally - she hadn't been watching to see if he and Mary Margaret had been having one of their silent conversations - but now she's really curious about what Mary Margaret might be thinking. Emma's spent the night at Killian's before with their knowledge. Is she thinking it's a little fast to spend _multiple_ nights there? Emma's not _moving in_, and the thought of that sets her skin itching like crazy.

Idly, she runs her nails up and down her arm. Killian catches her eye and quirks an eyebrow at her. She smiles in what she hopes is a reassuring way. Emma takes a deep breath and a piece of cake for herself, going to sit next to Killian. Whatever Mary Margaret thinks is her problem. Emma knows what she's doing. She jabs at her cake, only to hit air, and looks down to see a chunk of it is missing from her plate. Killian is licking icing off his fingers with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Problem, Swan?"

There's a glob of icing he's missed, sitting where his thumb meets his palm. Fully aware that they probably have an audience, she grabs his hand and licks it off, maybe sucking on the skin a second longer than necessary. She smirks at the heated way he stares at her. "Not at all," she says, and she takes a large bite of cake.

* * *

They drive separately to the Horn, her Bug following his truck. Emma knows what God-awful time Killian gets up every morning; there's no way she's getting away from the noise at the Point only to get up and try to be functional even _earlier_.

With every mile put between their two farms, she feels the knot of anxiety in her chest loosen. In a way, she's glad for the excuse to get as far away from Neal's letter as she possibly can for now. Why she didn't just rip up the damn thing and throw it away… Emma flexes her hands on the steering wheel, taking a deep breath to calm the surge of anger rising in her chest. There's a sick part of her that wants to see what he wants, why after all these years and everything that's happened he might even think about reaching out to her. The larger part of her says she should have thrown it away, put it out of her mind, put him firmly in her past where he belongs.

But part of her knows she never would be satisfied if she never read it.

But she doesn't want to.

Someday, maybe, she can. Someday, when the part of her that still loves him is smaller and less likely to splinter the rest of her into tiny pieces.

Emma's still distracted by these thoughts when she lugs her overnight bag up to the house. Killian holds the door for her, keeping one of the cats back with his foot. Emma drops the bag on the kitchen floor with a grateful sigh, crouching down to give the cat a little ear rub - she's pretty sure it's Am who has this gray spot near her tail. Her hand is headbutted affectionately before Am wanders off towards the food dishes. Emma stands up, stretching her arms above her head with a grateful sigh.

Killian's arms slip around her, his lips on her neck. Her sigh turns into a moan, her arms dropping and her hands covering his as they slide up to cup her breasts. His mouth wanders along her neck and shoulders, the little nips and sucks and kisses sending heat through her veins. She turns in his embrace, her arms going around his neck. "Can't even let me get comfortable before attacking me?" she teases.

"Oh, are you not comfortable?" he asks, one hand slipping under her shirt to stroke her back. She shivers at his touch. "I think I can arrange for some comfort."

She has half a second to realize what he's about to do, the wicked grin on his face and the boyish glint in his eye her only clues that something was up, and she screeches, "Killian Jones, don't you _dare_ -" a second too late as he lifts her easily and carries her up the stairs draped over his shoulder.

She's more breathless from his shoulder digging into her stomach than this show of strength, but she won't lie and say it's not a bit of a turn on. She's expecting him to drop her onto the bed when he maneuvers them into his bedroom, but he's gentle as he lays her across the quilt, almost reverent. Emma props herself up on her elbows, watching with appreciation as he strips off his shirt. Her gaze travels down the thick patch of hair on his chest, the taut plane of his stomach ending in the cut V-shape and the dark trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. She's definitely not smirking as he get onto the bed, straddling her thighs while he leans down to kiss her. "See something you like, lass?" he murmurs between kisses.

"You'll do," she replies.

She reaches between them to palm the bulge in his pants, but he moves her hand away. "Not tonight, love, this is about you."

Emma pulls back, tilting her head in confusion. "What? Why?"

She sucks in a breath as he unbuttons her blouse with one hand, his fingers teasing her skin enough to fuel the fire between her legs. "Because," he says, as slowly as he's undressing her, "something upset you today and, though I don't know what it was, it's my job to ensure you forget any and all of your woes."

Emma exhales slowly as he pulls her bra cup down with his teeth, her head falling back when he circles her nipple with his tongue. "Your job?" she manages to say as he worries her nipple lightly with his teeth.

Killian hums in acknowledgement, lavishing attention on her breast before switching to the other. His hand slides up her back and unclasps her bra, and Emma sits up further to pull it and her blouse off. She has to hand it to him, he's doing a fairly spectacular job at trying to make her forget everything but the feel of his hands and lips on her breasts, her neck, her stomach. And - _damn_ \- they're really fucking good. He has her squirming under him as he leaves marks all over her skin from his scruff, lightly tickling her when he has the chance or gasping as he rediscovers the sensitive spots just above her hipbones.

When he finally - _finally_ \- undoes her jeans and slips them down her legs, catching her undies in his teeth and pulling them along as well, Emma's flushed, panting and shivering with anticipation. He's good at this, really, _really_ good at it, and the way he's looking up at her like he's starving and she's the first meal he's come across in weeks makes her squeeze her thighs together with want. Gently, he nudges her legs apart, hitching them over his shoulders as he grasps her hips and Emma holds her breath. There's one warm puff of air against her core before he licks a long stripe up her slit and she hisses out a his name like it's a four-letter word. Her chest feels tight as he parts her soaked folds with his fingers. "So wet for me, Emma…" he murmurs before slipping a finger inside her center.

Her hands clench in the quilt as he works his magic, one finger being joined by a second to stretch her and coax her higher as he presses his tongue flat against her clit the way she likes. She dreams about this sometimes, his mouth hot and demanding on her core, devouring her until she wakes up shaking with want for him and only has her fingers to satisfy her. She much prefers this reality, where he's built her up too much already. It doesn't take long before she's crying out, "_Killian!_" in a strangled, high-pitched voice and thrusting her hips into his face further, but he's not done with her, not yet.

She learned a while ago that Killian Jones can and will happily spend hours going down on a woman, and it looks like tonight's her lucky night.

He fucks her with his tongue next, alternating between thrusting into her aching core and stroking her sensitive clit. She loses track of time, breathing hard, completely overwhelmed with sensation - in her less post-orgasm moments she's wondered how he was able to figure out how to play her body like a finely tuned instrument from the start. She wasn't lying when she'd said she'd never been able to come more than once during sex, but he was bound and determined to set new records with her almost every time they fucked. In the shower, on his couch, the kitchen counter - he wanted to claim her on every available surface in the house, it seemed, and it felt like he had some kind of mental record of how many times he'd made her come in each place.

She couldn't say she minded it much.

She can feel the coil of pleasure tightening inside her again as he brings his finger up to rim her entrance, teasing her. "Please," she whines.

"Please what?' Killian murmurs against her, the slight vibration on her clit making her jump.

She swallows hard, every inch of her humming with arousal. She's not nearly as vocal about her desires in bed as he is, but that was another thing they were working on. "Please make me come," she whispers.

She can _feel_ him chuckle more than hear it, before he dips his tongue inside her again briefly, making her moan with wanting. "What was that, Swan? I didn't quite hear you."

She hates him, the way their eyes lock when she looks down at him and he makes her core clench just from the passion in his eyes. "Make me come, Killian," she says, louder.

His grin is feral and he renews his efforts with earnest, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. Emma cries out, burying her hands in his thick hair, keeping his head in place as he thrusts his tongue inside her, his fingers sliding against her clit and then she's _soaring_ over that peak, legs shaking and squeezing against his head. Killian kisses the inside of her thigh after gently bringing her down. She can't catch her breath, barely aware of the sounds of him undressing the rest of the way and ripping open a condom packet.

The bed dips next to her and Emma opens her eyes to see him looming above her, grinning. She reaches up, cupping the back of his neck and bringing his mouth to hers. She kisses him deeply, hungrily, needing to taste herself on him. Her tongue sweeps into his mouth and he groans, pressing her down against the bed. "Can I have you?" Killian breathes against her lips. "Please, Emma, can I make love to you, make you feel good?"

Desire rushes through her and she's unable to speak, choked with some emotion she's too afraid to name. He's treated her well, he always does, but she doesn't know if she'll ever get used to the almost worshipful way he treats her sometimes. She nods, not trusting her voice right now. He shifts himself up, settling his weight between her thighs, his hard cock pressing against her sensitive core. He braces himself on his elbows, spaced on either side of her head, and kisses her again. She moves her hand between them, guiding his cock to her entrance. "I want you in me," Emma says softly.

He moans softly as he presses into her, stretching her, filling her. Emma's breath catches in her throat as she lifts her hips, taking him in deeper.

_How does every time feel better than the last? How the hell is this possible?_

Killian's thrusts are slow, almost lazy, as he kisses her more, his fingers tangling in her hair. Emma's feeling overwhelmed again from this gentle fucking - no, _making love_. Killian's _making love_ to her, and it's terrifying and wonderful and she's pretty sure her heart's going to burst from this unnamed emotion filling her. She doesn't want to put a name to it, doesn't want to make herself more vulnerable to this man than she already is.

(She knows what it is and that's what terrifies her the most. It's _too soon_, how can she feel lo - _No_. No labels, just Emma and Killian.)

There's tears pricking at the corners of her eyes that she's fighting to keep in; the last thing she wants is for him to feel like he's hurt her in any way. She kisses him harder, more urgently, thrusting up to meet his hips and hoping he gets the idea that she wants more. He breathes a laugh against her but quickens his pace only a little.

His lips travel across her cheeks, her forehead, her ears, down her neck. He sucks a new bruise on her collarbone, sweeps his tongue across the sensitive spot under her ear, whispers words of affection in her ear until a tear does slip from her eye. He thumbs it away, looking at her so tenderly that Emma has to close her eyes before she does something stupid like tell him she _lov - no_.

When she comes, it's after a long, slow build. It's crashing over her so intensely that her toes curl against his calves and she's sobbing his name while his face is buried in the crook of her neck. He's still against her as she milks him dry, tense as he rides his own orgasm out.

She's spent, letting him clean her up and cover her in the blankets of his bed without any protest. "I'm going down to the shedrow to make sure everything's fine, love," Killian tells her softly, kissing her brow before he dresses quickly. "I'll be back before you know it."

"Okay," Emma says drowsily.

He leaves the door open when he leaves, and soon she's sharing the bed with his cats. She doesn't mind their extra warmth in the least - Killian's finally turned on the air conditioning and it's a little cooler than she's used to for July. One of the cats settles near her head, purring loudly, and Emma strokes her gently as she thinks.

One, Killian had certainly made her forget about the thing-that-shall-not-be-named.

Two, she may very well be falling in lo - growing really, _really_ attached to him. She's _very_ fond of him, she's realizing, and while she's scared of that prospect, there's another part of her that's oddly calm about it. She doesn't feel the urge to run as strongly as she has before, the prospect of never being held by him again - _cared_ for like this again - more heart wrenching than the thought of protecting her own feelings.

She's not sure what to think, where to go from here.

Emma's dozing, one cat by her head and the other curled against her stomach, when Killian comes back. She wakes slightly when the bed dips and he gets under the covers. He chuckles. "Oh, I see. Cuddle-blocked by me own cats."

"They like me better," Emma mumbles.

"I can't complain, love, not with my three best girls here with me." He kisses her brow. "Goodnight, Emma."

"Night," she says softly, freeing one hand to entwine their fingers. "Killian?"

"Mm?"

"Thank you," she says, meaning it.

His lips are on hers, softly and briefly. "Anything for you, sweetheart."

_Somehow,_ Emma thinks as she dozes off again, _that's not as scary as it should be._

* * *

**There's another side story out, called Little Bits of Fluff and set four years before this one.**

**There's also a pure PWP set in this universe in Chapter 15 of Ecstasy is All You Need, set during chapter 13 of this story. I filled a prompt with a scene I'd left out, so that's why it's over there.**

**In the series folder, you'll notice I've ordered things chronologically. So right now it's LBoF-GS-DH. I don't know how it'll get ordered when I have stories taking place concurrently with DH, but that's all part of the fun!**


	15. July 22 - August 1

**Chapter warnings: alcohol use, reference to alcohol abuse, allusions to drunk sex, references to parents in an unhappy marriage and resulting childhood trauma, references to minor character deaths, references to a controlling romantic relationship, references to childhood trauma due to abandonment and bullying.**

* * *

Killian's alarm goes off far too early. He slaps at it, the single coherent thought in his sleep-addled mind being, _Why the devil am I so tired?_

A feminine groan to his left has him opening his eyes. Emma's wriggling further under the covers next to him, her head half-buried under her pillow. The previous evening comes back with a rush: Emma asking him to attend a family function, Emma clearly upset and afraid to discuss her fears, Emma asking if she could stay with him, Emma falling apart under his careful ministrations. He exhales slowly, a grin spreading across his face. She's _here._ _With_ him. The cats are long gone, leaving him in the clear to slide closer to her, lay his arm over her and press their bodies together. She sighs, leaning into his embrace. "S'early," she mumbles from under the pillow.

Killian kisses her bare shoulder, humming in agreement. Emma Swan in the altogether is a sight he could happily wake up to for the rest of his days. He's just as bare as she, but she doesn't seem to mind - if the way her arse presses firmly against his growing erection is anything to go on. "Minx," he mutters, making her giggle sleepily.

He has a few minutes to spare, gladly giving up the luxury of a lengthy shower in favor of holding her after being denied the privilege the night before. He has to make up for lost time, after all. He makes no moves to ravish her, though, simply enjoying the skin-on-skin contact, the way their bodies fit together as if they were made for one another. Gradually, her breathing evens out as her body falls limp against his - she's fallen asleep again.

God, but he's besotted with her. She'd asked for house room, unaware that he'd fetch her the moon if only she'd ask. The worry from the night before creeps back into his heart; she'd claimed she only wanted to get away from the noise, but he knows something else bothered her. There's something back at the Point that holds power over her, power he wishes he could protect her from. She'd looked to her desk when she'd asked to stay with him; a less honorable man would snoop, but he does wonder if the reason for her anxiety lay there.

Killian twists, looking over his shoulder at the alarm clock, and sighs. If he's to make any headway with the yearlings today, it's time to leave the sanctuary of the bedroom. Emma's soft and pliable under his hand, sighing even in her sleep as his hand slipped over her stomach and hip before leaving her to her blanket cocoon. He kisses her shoulder once more before heading to the shower and his morning routine.

-/-

"Brought your coffee, love," Killian announces, making Emma jump in surprise and almost drop her curling iron.

"_Jesus_, don't do that," she hisses, untangling her hair and setting the iron on the counter.

He grins, leaning on the doorframe, his gaze raking over her bra-and-panty-clad body appreciatively. "'Killian' will do," he says, lifting an eyebrow suggestively, and she wants to smack him. But he has coffee, and that's what ultimately saves him - for now. She takes the mug, sighing appreciatively as the scent hits her nose. "Sleep well?"

She nods, taking a sip before setting the mug on the counter and resume her hair routine. "After _someone_ woke me up too early," she says, glancing at him in the mirror's reflection.

He snorts derisively. "You're the one who wanted to sleep here, lass," he reminds her, his eyes following her hands as she winds a strand of hair around the curling iron. "And don't act like you didn't enjoy being able to hog all the covers after I left."

"I do _not_ hog the covers," Emma protests, watching her reflection's cheeks turn pink.

"My freezing arse says otherwise."

She fails to contain a smile at his ridiculousness. The words '_I missed you_' don't come, stuck at the back of her tongue. She _had_ missed him when she'd woken up, his side of the bed long-since cooled. Maybe she'd rolled over and buried her face in his pillow, but she wouldn't admit that aloud. He watches her finish taming her hair into a mass of curls, tying it all off in a low side-ponytail over her shoulder. Her eyes meet his a few times while she puts on her makeup, the small smile playing on his lips making her blush further. "What?" she asks finally, capping her mascara and turning to face him.

He shakes his head, that endearing look still on his face, as he walks up to her. He gently grips her shoulders and kisses her. "Nothing," he says, thumbing her chin.

Emma quirks her eyebrow up. "You're acting weird," she says, reaching for her coffee.

The endearing look changes to one of exasperation. "Just for that, I _won't_ be ravishing you before work," Killian retorts, making her snort into her mug.

He follows her out of the bedroom, where she's laid out her outfit on the bed. She sets her mug down on the dresser and pulls her clothes on quickly, ignoring the small sound of protest he makes behind her. Turning, Emma slips her arms around his neck and kisses him again. "I guess it's just as well," she says, resting her forehead against his. "We're running late."

"_You're_ running late," he corrects her gently, his hands sliding down her sides to cup her ass, squeezing just a bit.

She sighs appreciatively, rolling her hips into his. "Not coming in today?"

"Scarlet can handle things. I need to earn my paycheck as a trainer."

She hums in acknowledgement as their lips meet. They sway a little. One of his hands slides up her back and coils her ponytail around it, pulling slightly to angle the kiss deeper. She moans, biting at his lower lip. When he squeezes her ass again, she presses her hips against his, feeling his erection press against her through their too-many layers of clothing. _God_, she wants him right now…

He pulls away, his cheeks flushed and his pupils blown wide with desire. Emma thinks she probably looks the same - she certainly feels like it, anyway. "Love, as much as I would like to continue this," he says, and the hoarseness of his voice only makes her want him more, "you and I both know that anything we start will not end for quite some time. And you don't want to be late."

Damn him, he's right. "Yeah," she says, clearing her throat. "Raincheck?"

He kisses her forehead instead, untangling his hand from her hair; he even fluffs her ponytail out a little, trying to mask the damage. "Don't make any plans after work," Killian tells her, his vow low and full of dark promise.

Emma grins, sliding her hands down his sides to squeeze his ass. "It's a date."

He hisses when she squeezes him again, then swats him playfully. He opens his mouth as if he's going to say something else, then appears to think better of it. "Have a good day, Swan," he says, kissing her again and keeping it short.

"You too," she says, and she grabs her coffee mug before heading downstairs.

* * *

About halfway through the day, Emma gets a text from David, asking her to come meet him in the stables after the races are done. '_Everything OK?_' she types when she gets a moment to breathe as Ruby queues up replays.

'_Yeah, just need to ask something_', he writes back.

Emma mentally shrugs. '_Alright, be down later._'

It's a frustrating day otherwise; she tries to stay upbeat by remembering her _very_ good morning at the Horn. _That_ was something a girl could get used to, having her senses knocked for a loop and riling up her hormones for later. But every time she gets too comfortable in her memories, she has Sean in her ear about a wiring issue on his camera, or Victor cracking jokes. Elsa's going through more tea than usual and isn't asking questions about Ruby's stories like she usually is, which makes Emma wonder if she's having a bad day or just tired. The capstone is when Jefferson's camera just up and dies during race 6. Victor spends every moment between races trying - mostly in vain - to scalp parts from other equipment and bring it back to life. Emma leaves them to it when the day is over, never more glad to be done with her workday than she is today.

She knows her hair's a wreck from how often she's worked her fingers through it all day; it's a trick to finger-comb it out of the ponytail and try to braid it up into something more respectable while walking, but she manages. She smiles at people she recognizes as she heads down the row where the Point's horses are stabled; David's in the aisle, talking to a stable hand for a moment before heading into a stall. "Hey," she says, looking over the stall door.

David glances up, undeterred from checking King for sprains or muscle inflammation. "Hey," he says, stretching King's leg out briefly. She's not too sure, but she thinks David isn't too pleased to see her. "Gimme a minute."

"Okay."

King stretches his neck a bit as Emma holds out her hand. He lets out a huff, letting Emma stroke his nose a bit. "Hey, big fella. You ran a good race today, don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

David chuckles from somewhere behind King. "Which is why I'm checking for injury, he was in good form. No reason for a fifth."

Emma shrugs, reaching higher to scratch at the base of King's ears in the way he likes. She grins when he rolls his eyes, leaning into her touch. "Sometimes it happens, Dave. Horses have off days just like people."

David hums in annoyance; she's not saying anything he doesn't already know, raised at his father's knee. "Speaking of off days…" She raises an eyebrow as David straightens. He murmurs kind words at King as he strokes the stallion's neck. He glances at her. "Wanna tell me what's up with you vanishing on us like that?"

The other eyebrow joins its twin. "Excuse me?" Emma asks.

"Mary Margaret said that Killian told her something was bothering you, and that's why you ran off to stay with him for a few days," David explains.

A low buzz of irritation spreads through her chest. Her nails bite into her palms and she has to flex her hands for a moment to relax them. "You and Mary are up at dawn, so the work on the barn doesn't bother you. It's loud when I'm trying to sleep. Killian's place has air conditioning, so there's no outside noise bugging me. That's all."

He gives her a patient look and waits. Emma's jaw is set in a stubborn line - she's _really_ not in the mood for this today. "I'm not playing this stupid game with you, David. That's _all._"

"Then why would Killian think something was wrong?"

The urge to roll her eyes is hard to resist. Instead, she lets her head drop back, sighing. "I don't know, because he's Killian and he worries," she says in exasperation.

King headbutts David in the chest, and he soothes the stallion by stroking his nose. His gaze is trained on King as he asks Emma, "Why would he have a reason to worry if nothing is wrong?"

Emma really wants to be done with this conversation. "I don't know, Dave, ask him that, not me."

"You're being defensive," he points out.

"I've had a long day, I wasn't expecting the third degree when I came down here!"

"And you're doing the thing you do where you just run away from things instead of facing them head on and getting it over with."

She wants to scream in frustration, because he _knows_ her, and it's _really fucking annoying_. Now he's boxed her into a corner like a filly who doesn't want her shots and he's looking at her like he knows exactly what she's thinking - and because he's _David_ and he's her brother, of _course_ he does. "Well I'm sorry if I don't feel like dealing with Neal and whatever bullshit he wants to sling my way, okay? Are you happy now?" Emma snaps.

David's eyebrows go up. "Neal? What does any of this have to do with Neal?"

"Everything," she hisses. She turns on the spot, pacing up and down the aisle, bracing her hands on her forehead the same way Elsa does when she gets frustrated. "Nothing. I don't fucking know, alright? I got some bullshit letter from him and I don't know why I didn't just light the damn thing on fire in the hallway when I saw it. And yeah, it might be affecting me _just a little bit _to have my murderer ex-boyfriend write to me out of the blue, after not speaking to him at all for the last five years."

His voice is calm and soothing as she hears the stall door open and close. "Hey. _Hey_, stop for a second, c'mere," he says, taking her arm. Emma allows him to pull her into a hug, though her irritation at the whole thing doesn't allow her to relax. "You didn't burn it because part of you still wants to know what he could possibly want."

"No shit, Sherlock," Emma mutters into his shirt.

"You just have to get to a point where you want to read it," David continues, ignoring her. He cradles her head with his hand and it makes her feel very young. "And that'll take some time, and none of us will blame you for it."

"Yeah, because he's a murdering jackass and it's his fault Graham is -" Emma cuts herself off, startled to realize there's tears in her eyes. _What the hell? I didn't even cry when they told me he was dead,_ she thinks. David doesn't say anything, just holds her, and she swipes at her eyes furiously. "I don't want to hear whatever it is he has to say," she tells him finally. "Asking forgiveness or whatever. He doesn't deserve it."

"Okay," he says. "So do you want me to go home and destroy the letter?"

The word '_Yes_' is at the tip of her tongue, but it gets stuck, much the same way she'd gotten stuck telling Killian she'd missed him this morning. (God, was that only this morning? It feels like ages ago now.) Why can't she just say yes and be done with it? Having David get rid of it solves all of her problems. She won't be tempted to open it, it'll be gone, no one will ever have to know what Neal was trying to do except Neal. She'll be free of him forever - surely even he would get the hint and stop trying to contact her. So why can't she just say yes?

Emma opens her mouth, but the word's still stuck.

_Fuck_.

"You still want to know what it says," David supplies softly.

She hesitates, then nods. It kills her that part of her is still in love with Neal. Stupidly, horrifically, part of her still loves him, because that naive part of her remembers the good Neal. The one whose eyes lit up as they planned their crazy, adventure-filled future together, who laughed at her dumb jokes and was so patient when she didn't know much about the business side of horse racing. The Neal who asked her out their senior year of high school, not because there was some dance coming up that he needed a date to, or out of some cruel prank the other rich kids thought up to torment the orphan mooching off the Nolans. But that hadn't been it at all. He said he thought she was beautiful and smart, and he'd been trying to get the courage to ask her out for months because he loved the way she always had some smartass comment to throw at their idiot trig teacher - and he used that word when he'd asked her out_, love_. God, no wonder she was so messed up.

The Neal who made her feel loved. Wanted. Like she was _enough_ for someone.

There'd been good in Neal, once. Before he'd started telling her how she 'really' felt about things, started subtly trying to maneuver her into going with his ideas and opinions before her own. Before he'd stopped asking and started doing instead. Before the greed and the scheming took over - or maybe it had always been there and she'd never noticed, not until it put so much strain on them that it ultimately made her break things off to save herself.

Now there's tears in her eyes again - why is this her life? "I hate him," Emma whispers. "I hate that he still has this… I hate that I still love him. I hate that I still care."

"I know," David says, and his tone says that he wishes he could do anything more than that. She wishes that too. "What do you want to do?"

She doesn't know what she wants, just what she needs. She needs to forget about Neal, focus on her life now. She needs to stop living in the past. She has a good thing going right now, she knows that, and Neal trying to force his way back into her life is going to screw all of that up. Maybe what she needs is the same thing as what she wants. "I just… need time to think," she says finally. "Away from that stupid… letter. I was going to go to Killian's anyway, but that just - I needed to get away."

David's chest rumbles underneath her head as he laughs. "Well, I'm glad you stayed local this time. Mary Margaret would have been more mad if you'd gone back to New York without warning."

Her brows come together in confusion. She pulls away slightly so she can see David's face. "Wait, is Mary Margaret _mad_ at me about this?"

There's a flash of panic in his eyes. "No, she's not mad, she -"

Anger flares under her breastbone. This might be the last straw breaking her patience today. "David, do _not_ lie to me, you know my thing about lies -"

"I'm not lying -"

"Yes you are!" Emma snaps, stepping away from him. Her nails are biting into her palms again. This was so not how she envisioned her day going today and it's infuriating. "Is Mary Margaret mad at me or not?!"

David sighs, running a hand through his hair and propping the other on his hip. "She's just a little... frustrated," he says finally, and Emma grinds her teeth together. "She knows you're not Mom-number-two, but she's really come to appreciate your help around the house with both boys running around and with me out working with the horses - and I know she's come to count on you helping Belle with her horses since she can't always be down there."

Emma takes a deep breath and counts to ten - slowly. She needs to get her temper under control. Shooting the messenger will not fix things. "If Mary Margaret is feeling overwhelmed, maybe you two should reconsider having another kid," she says instead. She knows her sister-in-law is already pregnant and the suggestion is moot at this point, but she's also damned if she'll be the one to ruin Mary Margaret's surprise for David. "Because she's right - I'm not Mom-number-two. I'm Aunt Emma, and eventually Aunt Emma's going to stop playing the Austenian spinner living in the attic and have her own place again. Same thing for her horses. It's volunteer power, and I volunteer more than anyone else." David opens his mouth to speak and Emma holds up a hand to stop him. "I know, your guys are all busy, and the kids need time to be kids. And I appreciate that you guys let me crash with you while I get my life together, but we all knew this was a temporary thing. I'm not going to live in the attic and nanny for you guys forever."

"Emma, we know that," he says. "She just thinks that the sudden drop-everything-and-go was a little… sudden," he says, wincing a little, "and would have liked more of a warning before you run off for a week or so."

"Yeah, well, life isn't perfect," Emma mutters, because hers is proof enough of that. And David knows that, which is why this all stings so much. She crosses her arms over her chest tight, wishing all of this would just be over and she could leave.

They're both quiet for a long moment, the sounds of horses shuffling or 'talking' at each other filling the air. She desperately hopes that no one else has come across them arguing - the last thing she needs is more stable gossip going around about her. And she wouldn't have anyone to punch for it except herself. Finally, David sighs. "Okay. Well. All that's out there now."

"Yeah," she says shortly.

"Just…" She glares at him and he sighs again. "We care about you, Emma. We worry about you."

"I know," she says. She hates fighting with him, but it's been awhile since their last big fight. It's probably time. "I care about you guys too."

He nods, as if that's enough and she supposes for now it'll have to be. They'll figure it out later, after everyone's had a chance to cool off. "Okay."

He turns to go but Emma's conscience nags at her to try and fix things anyway. She doesn't want to leave it like this until the next time she sees him. "Wait, Dave," she calls. "I'll - I'll come over tomorrow and give Mary a hand, since it's… day off and everything."

"I think she'd like that."

Emma nods. She hugs herself tighter and turns to go, taking a different way out of the stables to the parking lot. She _hates_ fighting with her brother, _hates_ it. But the idea that Mary Margaret's upset with her because of something like this… it's ridiculous and kind of infuriating. Emma knows that since she's living at the Point rent-free she needs to pitch in and help out, but she's _done_ that. She'd stayed in and babysat Leo while David and Mary Margaret went to Kentucky, and they hadn't even _asked_ her if she was available to stay with him. Surely she gets to be selfish sometimes, too?

She's fuming mad again by the time she reaches her car, mentally listing off why Mary Margaret has very little ground to stand on being mad at her for just wanting to get some sleep - hell, the sex is just a bonus at this point, albeit a really fucking _great_ bonus. She slams the door shut behind her, jaw aching from how tightly she's clenching her teeth together, and starts driving back to the Horn.

-/-

_Bloody hell, it's hot_, Killian thinks, four seconds before he cranks the nozzle and sticks his head under the hose. He's still getting used to American summers, though this far north isn't nearly as bad as his brief stints on farms further south. The water is gloriously icy, simultaneously cooling him down and waking him up. It's been a long day in the training yard, but a good one: Scamp's responding to signals on the long line every time now, not just when he feels like it. Malcolm's yearlings, a pair of twins called Wishing Star and Neverland - and yes, they are ridiculous names, but they have matching stars on their faces that make them honest ones - are also coming along nicely, responding to signals three times in four.

Gasping, Killian twists the nozzle off and stands, slicking his sopping hair back and letting the water trickle down his back. He recalls the second day he'd ever spoken to Emma, how she'd caught him in much the same predicament and purportedly found the sight an attractive one. His grin is positively salacious as he looks at the angle of the sun and figures she'll be home soon.

She'll be _home_ soon.

'_Get a grip, little brother, it's too early to consider such things. Bad form,_' Liam's voice is in his ear.

And Killian knows this, knows it's far, far too early to consider asking her to stay with him, make this a proper home, but the thought still sends a pang of longing through him. _When did I start to think of this place - _any _place - as home?_ he wonders.

'_I suppose when you found someone to make home a worthwhile place to be,_' Liam says. Or maybe Killian thinks it, he's not sure anymore.

Maybe he and Liam were more similar than he ever appreciated.

Smee's walking out of the stable, followed by a few others on the day crew. They lift their hands in cheery waves as they head off to their evenings. Will's not yet back, but he's got three horses to get home on his own, so Killian doesn't expect him back with any haste. The evening crew got in not an hour before to start evening feeding and medications, and he suddenly realizes how late it is, and how Emma should have been back by now.

He'd asked her not to make plans after work, not after the morning they'd had. He runs his tongue along his lower lip, thinking, but before he could get too far he spots her yellow Bug on the road half a mile away. He heaves an inner sigh of relief as she turns up the long driveway. '_Still think she's going to run out on you, brother?_'

_Shove it, you git._ Jesus and all the saints, he's gone mad talking to himself.

He trudges up the walk to the house as she parks, slamming the door after she gets out. His brows go up as Emma strides up to the house, her expression murderous, her stance ready for battle. Surely the track hadn't been that bad today or Will would have called to complain at least four times. "Swan?" he calls. She doesn't answer, only flings the door open and stalks inside. He shrugs. _Never let it be said Killian Jones backs down from hard work,_ he thinks, though Emma in a temper means his work is quite cut out for him. He follows her inside, hoping she'll calm down after talking with him for a time. "Swan, what's bothering you?"

She's already in the living room. "You've got three seconds to turn around and leave before I punch you in the face."

He sighs inwardly, resigning himself to a much different evening than he'd been anticipating. There's a bit of anxiety, wondering if he's done something wrong, or perhaps it's coming from somewhere deeper inside. "And how exactly have I wronged you that warrants such a punishment?" he asks, leaning on the door frame.

"I'm not in the mood for a talk, Jones," she snaps, heading up the stairs.

"No, you're in the mood for a fight," he mutters. It stings more than it should when she reverts to his surname. Louder, he calls, "So the sex is off then, is it?" The growl of rage echoing down the stairs is more than a little satisfying as Killian heads up them. "Or is it a good hatefuck you're after, love?"

He almost runs smack into her as he rounds the corner. She's glaring at him in such a way that were he a lesser man he'd be quaking in his boots. As it is, he gives his best, disarmingly charming smile to ward off the punch she'd threatened him with. "I don't. Want. To talk. About. It," she enunciates clearly.

"Aye, and what were you planning on doing up here then?" he asks conversationally, blocking her path down the stairs and away.

He can see the little muscle in her jaw jumping. "I was going to take a shower and try to calm down, but _someone_ decided to wake the fucking dragon." _Ah_. His bravado falters a little, realizing his mistake in his haste to try and comfort her - going after her had worked before, to a point, he'd failed to realize that perhaps the tactic wouldn't work a second time. She takes a step closer, jabbing him in the chest with a finger. "I have had people in my ear all day about a laundry list of things I had no power to fix. I had a camera die mid-race. I had a sick employee, and then I had my brother reading me the riot act because _apparently_ I'm not allowed to have secrets or be selfish anymore. So yes, I am a _tiny bit pissed off_ at the moment and would like a moment to myself."

Killian swallows, thinking quickly. "Emma, you need to -"

"Do _not_," she hisses, her eyes flashing in rage, "tell me what I _need _to do, Killian Jones. _No one_ tells me what _I_ need to do but me."

She pushes off of him as she whirls on the spot, no doubt heading for that shower, but his own temper has sparked to life now. "What have I said about shoving me, Swan?" he demands, his voice rising.

"Fuck off," she fires over her shoulder.

He moves fast to block her from entering the bedroom - if they're going to have it out, they're not fighting there. His childhood memories are filled with the echoing shouts of his parents behind the closed door of their bedroom, of him hiding under the covers with Liam and just waiting it out, of coming downstairs in the morning to see his father on the couch. He'd decided long ago that the bedroom was a sanctuary, not a battle ground. "Just because you had a shite day doesn't give you the right to take it out on me," he snaps.

She stomps her foot a little, her hands balled into fists. "Just because I'm in a bad mood doesn't mean you have to cheer me out of it!"

"_Tá tú glan as do mheabhair bean_," he mutters under his breath, ignoring the flash of confusion across her face. His temper's sizzling under his skin but he's desperately trying to keep it reigned in. He will _not _become his father. "Aye, but maybe I'd rather you be upfront with me when you're pissed about something."

"It's none of your business, Killian!" Emma shouts, gesticulating wildly.

He wants to shout right back at her, wants to rave about how he can't abide her being unhappy, how he's just trying to _help_. But he forces his voice to remain level, even if it is strained. "Sure, I'm just your boyfriend, why should I care at all if you're upset?!"

"You are _not_ my boyfriend!"

The words hang heavy in the air, the ringing silence following them almost suffocating him. The wind goes right out of his sails; he feels like he's deflating, collapsing in on himself and being dragged down. Emma's eyes are wide, her mouth dropping open in shock as he watches all the color drain from her face. "Killian -"

He steps around her. She doesn't want to talk, fine, he doesn't either anymore. She wants to be alone? He'll leave her alone. He needs a drink, and he's sure there's not a drop in the house that would satisfy him.

She doesn't call after him as he leaves, slamming the front door behind him. He doesn't know if that makes it better or worse, the fact that she doesn't try to stop him. He hardly pays attention as he gets into his truck and starts driving on autopilot to the liquor store. It's a miracle in and of itself that he arrives, pays for his fifth of whisky, and gets back to the Horn without crashing the truck into a ditch or another car or -

Killian takes his fifth into the stables, wanting to give the house and Emma a wide berth. The foaling stalls are in disuse this year, serving as makeshift storage instead, and he finds this darkened corner of the stable serves him quite well. He makes quite a comfortable seat out of some old saddles in need of repair, torn blankets, and a hay bale; if he's going to get piss-drunk, he may as well be comfortable for it.

If he's honest with himself, he's an idiot for using the word 'boyfriend' - but she's worse for flat out refusing to acknowledge him. Emma has done nothing but dance around labeling this relationship of theirs and it's _maddening_. The fact that they're public at all is a miracle in and of itself, and he was - _is_ grateful they no longer have to hide behind ridiculous excuses. _Please let this still be in present-tense_, he thinks, taking another swig out of the bottle.

He hates that she's so skittish around the idea of making this - making them - real. As if putting labels on things really changes them, when this is the most committed relationship he's been in since Milah died. He's in this for the long haul, wants _Emma_, broken pieces and all.

And maybe he wants to go and beat the daylights out of whoever broke her like this, but perhaps that's the whisky talking.

The bottle's half-empty when he hears footsteps in the aisle. There's a pause every so often, so Killian believes it to be one of the evening lads, checking on their charges. He takes another swig, at least two sheets to the wind at this point - dinner had been forgotten in his haste to leave and get drunk, and the whisky is affecting him faster than usual. A shadow eventually falls over the stall door. He looks up blearily and sees Emma, her hair still wet, wrapped in his bathrobe. "Hey," she says softly, her voice raspy.

He doesn't respond, only lifts the bottle to his lips again, resting his head against the hay bale when he's done and staring at the ceiling.

He's not sure how much time passes between her greeting and when she finally opens the stall door. His eyes slide over to her. If he were less drunk and less angry with her, he might be amused at the endearing picture she paints: she's paired his robe with a pair of work boots. Clutching the robe close to her neck, she gestures, silently asking if she can sit. Killian lifts one shoulder in a shrug, moving over a little to make room for her. She reaches across him, taking the bottle for herself and lifting it to her lips. His eyebrows raise slowly the longer she chugs. He half-wishes he'd started counting to make sure he wasn't just hallucinating the fact that she's probably downed almost a third of what was left before setting it down. Emma grimaces, then hands the bottle back to him without another word. Looking at her properly, Killian realizes that her eyes are red and her face is puffy. She's been crying.

Somewhere under the numbness from the whisky, his heart twists painfully.

She burps, clearing her throat after, and he chuckles. "So," Emma says, wrapping her arms loosely around her knees. "I started dating this guy when I was seventeen, right? He's nice, kinda funny, one of the rich kids at school. I was the orphan everyone whispered about when David wasn't around, because David got a little punch-happy when he heard them. I was wary at first, because no one but David even looked at me twice, because he's fucking _David_ and is a soldier for the downtrodden or whatever. But it turns out this guy's not bullshitting me, and he actually does like me and turns out I liked him, so we stuck it out."

Killian takes another drink. He passes her the bottle when she reaches for it; she takes another swig. "We dated for _years_," she says, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. "Right up until I left Storybrooke, actually."

"Neal," he mumbles, staring at the wall.

"Yeah. You know the part about his dad, how Gold didn't like me. Tried to break us up a few times, actually, though the worst was when Neal told his dad we were going to get married and move to Ocala. Nevermind that I'd wanted to go to Tallahassee, but Neal 'convinced me' that I wanted to go to Ocala instead," she says bitterly, making air quotes. Killian feels a dark rage building in his chest; maybe the desire to punch Neal Gold isn't entirely from the whisky. "Better horses… whatever. Point is, Gold flipped his shit, said all those horrible things to me, told Neal he was cut off and written out of his will if we got married."

Killian glances over at her as she takes another swig. Her face is hard as she stares at the wall. "Neal got weird after that. We spent less time together and I thought… I figured his dad had finally gotten to him. He was so driven, always focused on the next race, pestering Graham about how the workouts were going, what could be done differently…" She takes a shuddering breath. "That spot you wanted to fix, the one out in the woods. The fire pit. I broke things off with him there. The first time in weeks we were spending any time together and I just told him I was done. I've been left behind a lot in my life, tossed out of more foster homes than I can even remember. I knew it was coming, I just… I wanted to do the leaving for once. I just didn't want that hurt again.

"I know when it's time to cut and run, get out before I get myself in too deep, before there are feelings and shared things and everything that makes life complicated. I know how to run. I'm good at that."

Killian closes his eyes, bracing himself. She's taking the long way around to break things off, that's for sure. He only wishes she'd give him back the whisky, give him the antidote to the pain she's about to inflict upon him. He's not nearly drunk enough to handle being dumped by Emma Swan. He hears her gasp like she's just taken another drink. "I ran to New York," she says instead. "Got a closet of an apartment above a shitty restaurant, and the first thing I did was start drinking. Because there _was _all of that bullshit. I don't remember my first week in New York City because I was blackout drunk for most of it. I just wanted to forget the last six years had even happened. _Six years_. Who the hell just ends a six year relationship like that?"

Killian reaches over and grabs the bottle off of her, taking a mouthful. "People who are miserable," he says, his voice gravelly.

He glances at her again as he passes the bottle back; she's nodding. "I was, looking back at things. He'd stopped asking me what I wanted to do, started telling me what we were going to do instead. The whole Ocala thing - too far from an ocean. I know, Florida's a fucking minefield of ocean, can't go too far before you're falling into it, but it's the first thing I'd ever wanted for _myself_. To live on the beach. Like, can you remember the first thing you wanted so much it made your chest hurt thinking about it? Like you could taste it, you wanted it so bad?"

He's not sure if her alcohol is talking or if his is making it difficult to understand, but he doesn't really care. He gets the general gist of it, the first thought that comes to his mind making his heart flutter in his chest. "The Triple Crown," he murmurs. "I came to the States to win the Crown. No one's won it in nearly forty years, so I came here to train up the best. Go down in history as the no-name lad from Ireland who broke the longest dry spell in Thoroughbred history."

When he looks at her, she's staring at him like she's solved the mysteries of the universe. "That's why you bought the Horn," she says.

He nods miserably. The whisky's loosened his tongue enough by now. "Nowhere I'd been wanted it badly enough, or they just wanted me to follow orders as a junior trainer - which was a laugh, considering my reputation." She snorts, presumably at his ego, but he can't bring himself to care. It's the truth. "I'd had enough of that back in Ireland, so I started looking for somewhere to call me own. I had enough funds saved, so when I heard about this little place… It has promise. Regina could want it enough, if she'd take a step back from every other little thing in her life. She might take the chance, if her next foal comes out running. Gold wants it, he's just not savvy enough on which horse to toss into which ring. Malcolm… Malcolm's my best bet right now. If not next year…" He drifts off, his head swimming a bit.

"So you were bullshitting me when you made me think you were leaving soon," she accuses, her words slurring a little as the whisky takes hold.

That throws him for a loop. "When did I do that, love?"

Her eyes light up a little at the term of endearment. "The first time we drank our misery away," Emma says drily. "You passed when I asked how long you were staying. Which is kind of like answering, y'know?"

He laughs, properly laughs, and a weight lifts from his chest. "Love, I had no idea if you would go tell all my secrets to the tabloids, not when they're forever calling after me for some secret or other. Playing coy, see?"

Her eyes widen momentarily before she snorts, dissolving into laughter herself. "You're an idiot," she says finally, wiping at her eyes, trying to breathe normally.

"Aye," he agrees lazily. "So your story, what was the end of it?"

She hums a questioning noise, then says, "Oh. Well," she pauses a moment, hiking up the left sleeve to reveal her wrist, the one with the tattoo. "This, really. When I finally sobered up, this was my reminder. I have no idea what it means, why I paid money for it, if I went to a clean parlor… nothing. That's the story of my tattoo."

Killian looks at her, the whisky fogging up his brain more and more. "_Tá brón orm_," he says softly. "_A ghrá geal._"

"What's that mean?" Emma asks, wrapping her arms around her knees again, resting her head on them.

"It means I'm sorry," he translates, feeling the tips of his ears start to burn from embarrassment.

She shakes her head. "No, the other thing. You've said that before," she says.

Killian clears his throat, wishing the already dark stall was darker so she can't pick out how flushed he is - or that she's tipsy enough not to notice. "It's - there's no English for it, not really. One of those things that don't have the full effect with your clumsy language," he says, throwing her a grin, hoping it distracts her. "Just an endearment."

She hums a little, possibly not believing him, but she closes her eyes and doesn't push the issue. "Earlier," Emma says after a while, long after he think she's gone to sleep, "what I said… Did I break us?"

He doesn't know how to answer that. He doesn't _want_ them to be broken, but he can't deny they have some work to do. "What am I to you, Emma?" he asks finally. Maybe he shouldn't push her, not after how much she's let him in tonight, but he needs to know.

She's quiet again, long enough that he wonders if she's drifted off, but then her lips are on his, tasting of whisky and _Emma_. She's climbing on top of him and the shoulder of his robe is slipping down her shoulder, revealing creamy skin and the apex of her breast. They're both drunk and this is a _terrible_ idea to execute in the stables, but he's powerless to stop this: it pains him from how much he wants her.

He'd only been telling half the truth when he'd said his first true want was the Crown. Yes, he wanted the Triple Crown for his own, the prestige that went with it. As of now, the desire for the Crown hangs heavy over anyone of consequence in the racing world, the tantalizing prize of breaking the 36-year long dry spell tempting every trainer, owner, and breeder worth their salt. He wants it terribly. But truthfully? In all his life, Killian has never wanted something or someone so much as he wants Emma Swan. Now, tomorrow, ten years from now, for the rest of their lives.

God, he's so fucked.

Her hips gyrate against his and he bites back a moan as she sucks on his lip. Her hands cradle his face, lightly caressing his cheeks. They're both panting when she releases him, her forehead resting on his. "I care about you, Killian," Emma says softly. "A lot. And it scares me."

He knows that's the most of an answer as he's going to get for now. It's not as satisfying as he'd like it to be, but he'll take it. "We should go up to the house," he says, gritting his teeth as she rolls her hips against him again.

"Probably," she agrees, her hands moving to unbutton his shirt.

"My men are in here."

"Mm."

"Emma."

Her wicked gaze catches his as her hands smooth over the hair on his chest and he is so, _so_ lost for her. Fine, she wants a tumble in the hay? "One last question, love," he says as he reaches between them to unbutton his jeans. "Why are you wearing my robe?"

Emma lifts herself up as he frees himself from his trousers, and easily moves the robe aside. She leans in close, her lips brushing over his ear. "I didn't bring any pajamas," she whispers, biting the tip of his ear as punctuation.

It's slow and messy - sex and alcohol mix poorly in the best of conditions, let alone make-up sex - but she gives as good as she gets. She has a few tricks up her sleeves that make him see stars; the way she bites out his name and pleads for release when he teases her in return is music to his ears. _God in heaven_, he's so in love with her, in love with the way she pulls his hair, the way her skin tastes, the way she giggles - actually _giggles_ \- at him. Emma Swan, giggling during sex. He'd never thought such a thing was possible.

It's a fight to remain quiet, but they barely manage it. She finishes before him, he makes certain of that, and the act leaves them both gasping for air. As their breathing slows to normal and she half-heartedly cleans up his mess with an old blanket, Emma starts to giggle again. "I don't want to move," she admits, resting her head at an awkward angle into his shoulder.

"Dunno if I _can_ move, love," he says, tucking himself back into his trousers. His legs feel a little wobbly.

"Let's just…"

"Rest for a bit, yeah?"

She nods against him, relaxing as his arms fold around her. If they fall asleep like this, he'll blame the alcohol. If Will Scarlet wakes them up with a shout and dumping a bucket of cold water over them at dawn, Killian will seriously consider sacking the eejit on the spot. And if Emma threatens to brain Scarlet with the bucket, clutching the robe around her tightly and chasing him down the aisle, it's an image that will stick with him the rest of his days.

-/-

There's not a _wedge_ between them, but Emma won't deny that there's a trace of awkwardness during the rest of her stay at the Horn. Killian seems reserved, as if he's holding himself back from something, and no amount of asking or wheedling on her part will get him to open up. She's also fully willing to accept the blame for that; telling someone you're… _dating_ (fine, she'll admit that much) that they aren't yours would put a strain on anyone's relationship.

But the words are out there and she can't take them back.

It's almost a relief when Saturday comes and she goes home to the Point after work, but the tension there between her and her family quickly gets to her again. She wants to run, just get out until all of this blows over, but she knows it'll only make things worse. So she takes Leo outside after dinner, helping him climb trees and run around the yard until the sun is disappearing behind the tree line. She has to carry her nephew back inside; Mary Margaret gives her a grateful smile for tuckering him out, and Emma can feel some of the tension between them easing.

Just a little.

She tries to call Regina on Sunday, but it turns out that she's taken Henry and Roland to Portland for the day. She tries Anna and Elsa next, but they're down in Boston - Kristoff's back from Colorado, and apparently he needs moral support before starting up promos for the upcoming season. Whatever that means. Ruby's not answering her phone so Emma's fairly certain how _she's_ spending her day off.

She's a little jealous, if she's being honest.

She could call Killian. She really could. It's not like she hasn't been thinking about him almost constantly since she left the Horn. They'd kissed and made up… kind of… and the memory of that made her turn red every time she thought about it. (She blamed the alcohol for the way she'd pawed at him, just wanting to feel him inside her, not even caring that they didn't use a condom - though she'd be lying if that macho show of him coming all over her wasn't a tiny bit of a turn-on.) Certainly neither one of them had been able to keep their hands off the other when they were alone. But she doesn't want to bother him, not after forcing herself into his space for almost five full days. She's sure he's sick of her by now and wants his space, and Lord knows she's damaged this fragile thing between them enough for one week.

She misses him anyway.

The week creates more headaches when Victor admits he can't fix Jefferson's camera anymore and they'll need a new one. She spends two days bouncing between customer support reps, trying to figure out how to replace it - the damn thing's only two years old. Most of her calls consist of calm (strained, yes, but calm) explanations that it is complete bullshit to not expect a $7,500 camera to last more than two years. When she's not on the phone or actually doing her job, she's down in the commission offices, fielding complaints about video quality while also begging for the cash to fix said complaints.

By Wednesday, Emma needs a drink. Or seven. Or a good, hard fuck. Neither of those options are available, it turns out. Killian's taken some of Malcolm's horses down to Saratoga, and Roland's spending the night because Regina's working so late.

No one would blame her if they caught her checking her temples for white hairs, not after the way this week has gone.

On Friday, Emma's thinking longingly of locking herself in the bathroom for a bubble bath, accompanied by a very large glass of wine. David's been home with the boys all day, she knows, because today was Mary Margaret's appointment with the OB/GYN. Both Leo and Roland are on the porch playing with toys when she comes up the stairs. "Hi Aunt Emma!" Leo says cheerfully.

"Hey, kiddo. Where's your mom and dad?" Emma asks, going to sit on the porch swing.

Leo shrugs. "Inside. Mama came home and we were out here with Daddy and then she told him to come with her and said we had to stay on the porch _or else_." That last part he whispers conspiratorially, and Roland nods solemnly. Emma smiles.

With the windows open, Emma can hear Mary Margaret talking in the living room. Maybe it's not the best of ideas to eavesdrop, but she figures someone should make sure the boys follow instructions, or else, and if Emma happens to overhear… "Five minutes, and then you can get started on the grill," Mary Margaret's saying.

Emma hears David sigh indulgently. "Alright, if it can't wait until later. What's got you so excited?"

Mary Margaret takes a deep breath, then says without preamble, "I'm pregnant."

Emma can imagine the look on David's face. The mesh screen and the curtains mean she can't get a good look for sure, but she imagines him wide-eyed, his mouth probably dropping open a little. Mary Margaret squeals a shrill giggle and Emma thinks he's probably picked her up and spun her around, grinning like the lovestruck fool he is. She smiles; they drive her nuts sometimes, but she does love them, and as dumb as it might sound she kind of aspires to have the kind of relationship David and Mary Margaret have. Together seven years and he still looks at her like he's got the biggest crush in the world on her, and Emma's seen the way Mary Margaret looks at David when she thinks he isn't looking - a mix of love and a little bit like he's a piece of meat she wants to bite into. (That part Emma doesn't like thinking about, but when Mary Margaret gets that little smirk, that little twinkle in her eye… Emma usually looks the other way, fast.)

Mary Margaret's giggling now, as Emma's rolling her eyes fondly. "You're sure?" David asks.

"Eleven weeks sure. Or twelve, maybe. I'm due in early February. I wanted this to be a surprise for you, we've been trying for so long… but I didn't get a sonogram picture. Didn't even look for myself, I didn't want to see our baby without you," Mary Margaret explains. "We'll see her together at the next appointment."

David chuckles. "Her? You sound sure about that, isn't it kind of early?"

Emma can imagine Mary Margaret smiling. "Call it a hunch," she says teasingly. "But I wanted to talk to you about that, actually."

"About what?"

"Names."

David laughs loud enough that Leo and Roland look up. "What's Daddy laughing at, Aunt Emma?" Leo asks.

She bites down a laugh of her own. "Your mom's being silly," she says.

"Mommy says Mary Margaret's always silly," Roland supplies helpfully.

_I don't doubt that_, Emma thinks wryly. Both women like and care about each other, she knows, but she's also very aware that Regina's patience with Mary Margaret has a limit and it doesn't take too long for that limit to break. "She can be, just like your mommy gets silly herself," Emma counters.

Roland nods again, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and goes back to playing. Emma missed whatever David had said but she catches the end of Mary Margaret's sentence inside, "...too early, but I think this is important." There's a pause, and Emma imagines David's nodding. "This might get blown up if we aren't having a girl, but I'm fairly certain about it. I want to name her after your mom."

David doesn't respond for a moment, but when he does, his voice is soft and full of awe. "Mary Margaret, you don't have to do that."

"No, I think we do," she says, and Emma can imagine her shaking her head. "You were so good about naming Leo after my father and then yours - my father died so long ago. Some days I can't remember the sound of his voice or the way he'd sit with me and watch cartoons in the mornings or… Well. It's hard, and you appreciated that it was hard for me to lose him when I was so young. You never met him, but you knew how much I loved and missed my father, even when James died so much more recently. And we were so young, and we weren't even done with school yet…"

"Mary Margaret…"

She sounds a little teary now, and Emma has to admit that she's feeling a bit weepy herself. Either Mary Margaret rehearsed this or she's a great improvisational speaker. "David, not many women would be thrilled that their son was having a child out of wedlock," Mary Margaret says, "_or_ that he was bringing this girl home with him and marrying her in a simple ceremony out in the backyard while she was seven months pregnant. Both of us barely had our college degrees, we had no idea what we were doing. But your mom welcomed me with open arms, treated me more kindly than I'd ever imagined she would in our situation. And we lost her so soon… I want to honor her memory. I want to name our daughter Ruth and hope she grows up to be just as kind and generous and loving as her namesake."

Emma would bet a lot of money that David's eyes aren't dry either at this point, because if _she's_ wiping away tears there's _no way_ he's not openly crying. Every word was true - Emma sitting on this porch, calling this place 'home' is proof enough of that. David may have dragged her home, but Ruth had taken one look at the scrawny, fifteen-year old lost girl in her kitchen and never let her go back to that godforsaken foster home again. Naming their child after her isn't _nearly_ enough of a tribute to the kindness Ruth had shown just about everyone who came into her domain, but it's a start.

From the silence in the house, she imagines there's quite a bit of PDA going on, and Emma decides to join in on the boys' game to distract herself from that imagery. Roland is explaining how exactly the little army men are working for the Barrel of Monkeys when she hears Mary Margaret call, "You can bring them inside now, Emma."

"Everything G-rated in there?" Emma fires back teasingly.

She hears David laugh again. "Well, not to get to this point, but for right now yes."

Emma fights the urge to gag and helps the boys pick up their toys and go back inside. As Leo practically drags Roland up to his room, Emma goes and hugs both Mary Margaret and David. "Congratulations," she says with a grin.

Mary Margaret's fidgety. "It's weird, now. It feels weird, knowing for sure. But a good weird. It's different than last time, so I feel like I shouldn't be nervous, but I am."

Emma drapes her arm around her sister-in-law's shoulders. "You'll be fine. You already manage Leo, Roland, and me, so one more shouldn't be an issue," she teases.

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes while David laughs. "You're a grown woman, Emma."

Emma hugs her around the shoulders briefly. "I know. And I'll be around to help you out too. You'll be fine."

She knows she's not Mom Number Two, and she's made sure Mary Margaret knows that too, but the grateful look Mary Margaret gives her now makes Emma feel like all the tension from the last two weeks is finally, finally starting to go away. "So," she says, linking an arm with David. "I heard something about grilling."

He gives her an indulgent look, but he's smiling, so Emma smiles too. The three of them head into the kitchen to work on dinner. Together.

* * *

**Thank you for your patience with this chapter coming out. Reviews really helped. :) A note, all Irish grammar errors are my own, either from trusting the wrong websites or (shudder) Google Translate. (and I do know that Killian's endearments for Emma have translations, he's just a little bashful about letting her know that she means everything to him)**


	16. August 9 - September 25

**This chapter contains a lot of warnings. However, as most of them are spoilery, I have decided to put them in the end notes. If you need to be warned about things, click the jump button. If not, enjoy the 15,000 word chapter.**

* * *

The vibrations of his phone tickle his thigh as it rings in his pocket. Killian drops the grain scoop in the barrel, fishing his phone out and answering before resuming dinner prep. "Hello, Swan."

She sounds out of breath. "Hey, did I catch you at a bad time?"

"Never a bad time when you call, love," he reassures her, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he measured Bluff's grain allotment. "How can I be of assistance?"

He hears a door slam on her end. "I'm only just getting home, and I promised Regina I'd pick Henry up for her - something about a family dinner before he leaves for camp tomorrow. Can you tell him I'll be late?"

Killian glances out the window briefly, towards the oval; he knows Henry was out there exercising one of Malcolm's horses earlier. "Course I will, darling. Have to find him first, but I expect that's easy enough."

She laughs as he hears her feet pounding the stairs. "Yeah, not like there's acres of places for him to get lost or anything."

He chuckles, finishing Bluff's bucket and moving to Wishing Star's. "Surely not."

"Right. I'm gonna change really quick and I'll be over as soon as I can," Emma says. He hums in interest and she laughs again. "Mind out of the gutter, Killian."

He smirks. "Never with you, darling. See you later."

He glances out the window again after he ends the call, looking for the lad again. His brow furrows when he notices Gold walking towards the rail. The man might be a bit unnerving to work with, but he's normally good about calling ahead of his visits. Killian's not entirely sure what Gold's doing here, or why he's now seemingly talking to Henry, who has ridden up on Shade. They're too far away for Killian to notice their faces, but after a little while Henry's dismounting and shaking Gold's hand. Gold clasps the boy on the shoulder and they turn for the stable.

Killian frowns as he gets back to finishing the dinner rations, wondering what they possibly could have discussed. The few times Henry's been around Gold - to his knowledge - they've been cordial to one another but nothing further. Then again, he _hasn't _seen the two around each other much, he concedes to himself as he hauls a few buckets out into the aisle for feeding. Given what he now knows about Emma and Gold's son, it wouldn't surprise him if Henry had gotten to know Neal quite well and, by extension, his father. _It's not my business_, he decides as they come in, leading Shade. He gives a nod of acknowledgement to Gold before relaying Emma's message to the lad. "Okay. Thanks, Killian," Henry says, then asks Gold about someone named Higgins as they walk Shade back to be untacked and groomed.

Killian watches them go for a moment, frowning a little, then shakes his head. _Not my business_, he reminds himself, going to distribute the dinners.

* * *

If Killian were forced to recall any details about August of that year, what would stick out most is how often he found himself biting his tongue around Emma. A particularly purple bit of prose would be toned down, or substituted with something more couth. Sometimes he'd catch her watching him curiously - worriedly? - from the corner of his eye. He suspects that she knows he's holding himself back, but in the long run he finds that it's easier to not say anything at all.

She's not ready to hear that he loves her.

He's not sure she ever will be, given her rather _virulent_ reaction to calling himself her boyfriend. Taking a step back seems to be the best option; if he's protecting himself from her prickly armor, he tries not to admit it. He'd felt he was doing so well at removing that armor, too, so it hurt all the more when she'd hastily put so much of it back on.

Withholding his tongue has led to withholding other things too, and this Killian knows Emma has noticed most of all. She seems to think something's wrong, that this still stems from their fight a few weeks ago. And in a way, it sort of does, but not… It kills him when he sees the worry in her eyes, the old fears that he'll leave her behind like so many others have. He can kiss her forehead and promise her nothing is wrong, but she's stubborn, his Swan. She'll ask what he's thinking about or what his plans were for the next day - innocent, typical girlfriend questions, but he senses she's trying to see what he's holding back from her.

It's killing him not to tell her.

_Emma Swan, I am in love with you._

He can see her turning on her heel and fleeing now.

Perhaps he's protecting his own feelings after all.

As August falls away to September, he sees Robin returning to the track on Saturdays with his boy and Regina. From the little the two men get to talk, he gathers that Robin's expedition seems to have gone well, if the ruddy tones of his skin and his good cheer say anything - though the latter may be from the reunion with his wife and boys.

Killian sees less of Henry as his newfound love of running takes him all over the tri-county area for cross country meets - and as school starts up again. When Henry is at the Horn, he's keeping himself busy and out of the way. Normally, Killian would find this encouraging, but something about the discussion he'd seen with Gold makes him curious towards Henry's newfound enthusiasm for chores that keep him inside and away from the horses. From Emma's few reports, Henry's quite good at running, considering he hasn't been at it for long. Perhaps the lad just needs some rest for his legs - riding and chasing after horses can be exhausting enough for a man of Killian's thirty-two years, let alone a fifteen-year old boy who runs several miles a day for sport.

While Emma doesn't get to attend any Henry's meets - most occur during the racing hours - she did get to attend a practice meet before school began. She'd come to the Horn after with a thoughtful frown that hadn't gone away for hours, despite Killian's best efforts to make her smile. She'd asked several times if he thought Henry was doing alright, if he'd noticed anything was amiss, and Killian had been able to offer no comfort with his simple yes or no answers. He'd merely held her that night, hoping that alone could sooth her worries.

With the arrival of September comes a slight decrease of Emma in his life as well. Mary Margaret's expecting another child and Emma's offered her services to the little Nolan riding academy. "Between working and doctor's appointments and Leo, she's going a little crazy," Emma says over the phone one night. "So I'm gonna teach one or two of her classes in the afternoons after work."

Killian hums in acknowledgement. He's stretched out on his bed clad only in the towel wrapped around his waist, enjoying the cool breeze drifting in past his curtains, cooling his damp skin further. He'd just finished a shower before she called. "Well, Swan, someone needs to teach the ducklings what they're doing," he says, and laughs at her outraged squeak. "You'll do fine."

"Oh, I knew _that_," she retorts. "Just letting you know that I'm not ignoring you, that's all."

He wonders if that's supposed to be a little barb at his recent behavior and decides it probably is. He can't fault her for it. "My heart longs for the moment we are near each other again, _a mhuirnín_."

He can hear the smile in her voice. "You're a sap."

"Aye." The urge to voice his feelings is stronger tonight than it's been in quite some time. But even if Emma's not ready to hear it, he's fairly sure she'd never forgive him for voicing them aloud over the _telephone_. "Go to bed, love," he says with a smile, "You've another long day ahead of you."

Killian hears a hitch in her voice before she replies, "Yeah. You too, Killian. Good night."

-/-

The whole month has been a weird blur. Both Killian and Henry have been acting strange - well, strang_er_ (man, it's been a weird summer) - and it's been rubbing her the wrong way. She knows Killian's keeping something from her and it's bugging the shit out of her that she can't get him to admit what it is. Worse is the niggling thought that he's going to break up with her because of what she said back in July, that he wasn't her… friend who is a boy. A man. Man friend?

She keeps telling herself that Killian wouldn't leave her over that - if he hasn't already, then he _probably_ isn't (right?) - but then he still feels a bit withdrawn. He always kisses her or holds her and tells her nothing is wrong, but she's got that thing about lying and it's going off all the time now. Kind of. It's not that he's _lying_, because she'd call him out on it if he was, but he's just… not telling her the whole truth. And it's starting to freak her out. A lot.

_Please don't leave me. Please let me be enough._

Emma's hardly seen Henry at all this summer. He spends his days working at the Horn or training for the fall; most of the time when she tries to call he says he's doing some team-bonding exercise and can't hang out. Which is fine, he's a teenager, he needs to do his own thing. She supports that. It's just... When his week away at running camp comes up, it hardly phases her. If things were like they used to be, it'd be weird to not see him every day, hang out and ask how his day was or take him to their favorite diner for fries. Now, the only weird part is how slow he is to respond to texts.

Emma makes it a point to check in with Regina every day while Henry's gone. Harmless phone calls once a day, just asking how things are, never quite implying that she's worried Regina might be going crazy from a minor case of empty-nest-syndrome. Regina seems to be holding up well with her boys mostly out of the house, but this is phone-Regina and Emma can't read phone-Regina as well as she can in-person-Regina. But she doesn't have time to drive down to Regina's firm and make sure she's holding up, so she takes Regina's word for it. By Wednesday, Regina's onto her. She sternly informs her that _yes_, Miss Swan, she's perfectly fine, and that both Robin and Henry will be home on Sunday night so will Emma _please_ leave her to get some work done in peace?

Emma's annoyed when she finds out that most of Henry's meets will be on Tuesdays or Saturdays and she'll miss just about all of them. There's a special Wednesday meet here or there, but until the end of October and their racing season is over she won't get to come cheer Henry on. _Then again_, she thinks, _I don't even know if Henry wants me to come watch him._

Things between them are still strained enough that she's never sure if Henry's just talking to her out of obligation, or if he's genuinely warming up to her again. Maybe she's reading too much into short, one-word answers, but Emma's better at figuring out people in person. But Henry's been deflecting her attempts at meeting in person and that only makes her stomach churn more. Every so often, fear creeps into her heart when she thinks he's going to be another Jefferson. But then she remembers that Grace is Jefferson's daughter, and Grace is the one who's been very good about helping Henry train.

Emma's got enough emotional scars to know that you tend not to make the same mistakes twice.

Regina doesn't seem to think anything's wrong, though, and she _lives_ with Henry. When Emma sees Robin again on the first Saturday of September, he mentions that while he _is_ surprised at Henry's sudden enthusiasm for the sport, he's glad Henry's taken up with more interests than the shedrow or video games. Robin and Regina had gone to Henry's meet that morning and brought Roland to the track for the afternoon races. Emma ran into them as she was coming to look for Killian. "You know, Henry _has_ been hanging around with that Grace Milliner quite a lot lately," Robin comments.

"What, you think he's joined the team to get closer to her?" Emma asks. She wants to laugh but she has to admit it's not entirely out of the realm of possibility.

Robin winks at her as Regina comes up to him. "Emma, men do _extraordinarily_ foolish things when they're in love," he says, putting his arm around Regina's shoulders and kissing her temple.

Regina tries to scowl at him, but Emma can see her struggle to not smile. "What nonsense is he telling you now?" Regina asks, making both Emma and Robin laugh.

"Only the truth, my love," Robin says, kissing her head again.

"The truth about what?" Killian asks, coming up behind Emma. He leans in and kisses her cheek. "Hello, love."

"Hey yourself," she murmurs, relaxing at the touch of his hand on the small of her back. Emma's definitely _not_ blushing, though, and it definitely _doesn't_ get worse when she catches Regina smirking at her.

At least summer's ending on a happier note: the week after school starts, David and Mary Margaret make the official announcement that there's another little Nolan on the way. With Emma taking some of Mary Margaret's riding classes, it leaves her free to start getting the spare room cleaned up for a new nursery. "You know, I've never thought to ask," Mary Margaret says on Wednesday as they're sorting through some of the junk accumulated through the years. "Why didn't you ever take this room, Emma?"

She shrugs, tossing some broken toy into the trash bag. That's another argument she doesn't like revisiting, but it's not nearly as bad as the one about college. "Ruth said I could have it for my room, but it felt kinda… confining."

Mary Margaret's watching her out of the corner of her eye. "I don't follow," she admits.

Emma sighs, rifling through a sheaf of papers now. "It's something… Space isn't something you get when you're a foster kid. You're always bunking with another kid or five, there's never any room at the table, there's noise and people _everywhere_, you just… it's easy to get lost in the crowd."

She doesn't say anything else and Mary Margaret doesn't press. Sometimes she can be annoyingly persistent, but Emma's grateful that her time in the system is never something her sister-in-law is very prying about. (Something about 'bringing it up in your own time' or whatever. Some mom psychology, or maybe it's teacher psychology.) And while there were times when Emma had regretted her insistence on living as far from everyone else as she could while still _technically _being under the same roof, mostly she's enjoyed the fact that she has her own area. It takes effort to get to her, she doesn't have to worry about overhearing anything she doesn't want to. It had kept the Nolans from overhearing her night terrors and possibly turning her out because of them.

And maybe there were a few times she'd allowed herself to be silly and imagined she was some powerful sorceress or a princess locked away in a tower. But those instances were few and far between, back when it had finally sunk in that she was here to stay, that Ruth and James were keeping her, that David was the brother she'd never had.

"Oh," Mary Margaret says suddenly, bringing Emma out of her thoughts. "David's birthday's coming up."

"Twenty-fifth, like it is every year," Emma responds dryly, tossing more paper in the bag for shredding.

Mary Margaret gives her a patient look. "Well, I was wondering if you'd be free to babysit," she says.

Emma pauses for a moment. Her immediate reply, '_you're asking and not expecting?_', gets bitten back - she's finally gotten on better terms with her family after their squabble six weeks ago, she doesn't need to start anything else. "I think so," she says instead. "I'll have to double check, but I'm probably alright for a few hours. Why?"

Mary Margaret beams, tossing a box into the keep pile. "I wanted to take David out to dinner. Nothing ridiculous, we wouldn't be gone for ages, but just a brief night out. But," and here she looks a little guilty, and Emma wonders wryly if she'd deliberately planned this order of events, "I may have promised Regina we'd watch Roland that night. Robin has a guest lecture at the university and she's going with him."

"Henry can't watch Roland?" Emma asks.

Mary Margaret shakes her head. "He's scheduled to work with Killian. Apparently he's been working a lot of evenings, since Regina knows how much time at the stables Henry's been sacrificing for running."

Emma frowns but doesn't continue the line of thought. She's still not sure if she has cause to be worried - no one else seems to be, not even David - but the last thing Mary Margaret needs is unnecessary stress. "Alright," Emma says finally. "If I'm free, I'll make sure neither of them get into too much trouble."

"You know we appreciate it, Emma," Mary Margaret says kindly, reaching over patting her ankle.

Emma smiles briefly. "I'm starting to."

* * *

After riding lessons the following Wednesday, Emma decides to spend the night at the Horn. She hasn't seen much of Killian lately, between all of her new responsibilities and his weird distance thing, and she misses him. She's a little hesitant as she walks up the porch, but his smile is bright when he answers the door and she melts a little into his kiss. Or maybe that's a reaction to the bag of take-out she's also carrying "This is a surprise," Killian comments as she sets down her overnight bag. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

Emma heads into the kitchen, digging around for plates and silverware. "I dunno, I just missed… this, I guess," she mumbles, perhaps being a little more forceful with the plates than necessary. "You."

He's quiet and she can't read his expression when she sets the table. Her hands are hardly away from setting down the silverware when he takes them in his, pulling her close. She squeaks a little in surprise when he covers her mouth with his in a sensual kiss, one hand cupping the back of her neck as the other wraps around her waist. She swears for a second that he's going to dip her like the big dork he is, but he just tightens his hold on her like he's afraid she's going to slip away. Her hands fist in his shirt as she relaxes against him. He kisses her forehead after, murmuring, "I missed you too, Emma."

His fingers comb through her ponytail gently as she smiles gratefully. He butts his forehead against hers lightly, widening her smile in the process. "We should eat before it gets cold," she says.

He shakes his head a little, but kisses her forehead again. "As you wish."

Later, when she's convinced him that the best possible way to spend the evening is on the couch watching old X-Files episodes, Emma brings up the topic that brought her over here in the first place. "How's Henry?" she asks quietly.

He's lying with his head in her lap, her fingers absently tangling in his hair. The cats have taken over the back of the couch, stretched out as much as their master. Killian tilts his head back a bit to look at her. "Fine, love. Why?" Emma doesn't immediately respond; she's picking at the pilling on the arm of the couch. "Emma, what's wrong?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know. I'm probably overreacting."

Killian shifts, pausing the episode and pushing himself up on his elbow. "Emma, what does your gut tell you?"

Her eyes flick up to meet his. There's lines around his eyes and between his brows, the corners of his mouth turned down as he searches her eyes for what she isn't telling him. Emma's reminded of the day when Anna had told her about Elsa's illness, when Killian had found her afterwards standing near the rail.

_"Fair enough. If there's anything I can do to help, though, just let me know."_

_"You don't even know what it is," she protests._

_He shrugs. "If you care about it enough to worry, then it's important. That's reason enough, Swan."_

What did she ever do to find someone like him? "It's telling me Henry's hiding something," Emma says in a rush, "and I can't figure out what. But no one else seems to think anything is wrong. He's fifteen and maybe he's just getting to that stage where it's not cool to hang out with old people like me, but… I've barely seen him since June."

"He seems fine when I see him," Killian says. "But if you want answers, I'd talk to Scarlet or Smee, they're around him more often than I am. I know they worked out some deal or other to ferry him back and forth for practice during the summer holidays."

She sighs, resting her head against the back of the couch. There's a chirp from whichever cat she's disturbed, and a tail flicks in her face. Killian chuckles as she swats it away. He might say Henry's fine, but Emma knows things about Henry that Killian doesn't. And she doesn't really want to break Henry's trust on this, but maybe she has to bite the bullet and deal with the fallout. "Did he ever talk to you at all about Kentucky?" she asks finally.

Killian sits up fully now, facing her. "A bit, yes."

"And what he wanted to do?"

"Go for his 'prenticeship, from what I gather. He'd be good at it," Killian comments. "He rides like he was born in the saddle."

Emma smiles a bit, shifting to look at him. "Sometimes I just wish he'd realize he could be good at a lot of different things, that he doesn't just have to get into racing this way. It's like… He hasn't had any other goal since I've known him. Eight years old, telling me he wants to race horses for the rest of his life."

"He's got the blinkers on," Killian says. "He's focused and driven, blind to the competition, seeing only what's ahead."

"Yeah, something like that…"

She notices the frown pulling at the corners of his mouth again and reaches over to smooth them away with her thumb. He leans into her touch a little. "Are you worried this sudden obsession with running has to do with his jockey ambitions, Emma?" he asks quietly.

She can't quite meet his eyes as she nods. "Something David told me a few months ago… just bugs me, the weird coincidence of it."

"You know, Swan, there are some philosophers who might tell you there are no coincidences," Killian says, and she looks up at him sharply at his slightly guilty tone.

"Killian, what happened?"

He closes his eyes and pulls away from her. "I caught him some time ago smoking a cigarette," he says, bracing his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. Emma's heart leaps into her throat. "I behaved… perhaps more rashly than I should have, but he'd been smoking right outside of the stable and I assure you that witnessing one barn fire in your lifetime is one too many. I was cross with him and he was stubborn with me. We both said things and I know I regret some of them. But he admitted that he read online about smoking curbing one's appetite…"

Emma closes her eyes. "And where, by chance, did he find a cigarette?"

"Said he pilfered it from Scarlet's coat pocket."

She grinds her teeth together, wanting nothing more than to go out to Will-_freaking_-Scarlet's apartment and punch him in his stupid face, but she'll have to settle for yelling at him. Again. "Please continue," she says instead, taking deep, slow breaths to calm her temper.

"I gave him a bit of a lecture about unhealthy habits and how you needed strength to handle horses. I may have encouraged him to do a lap around the oval if he was so insistent on doing _something_ about his weight, but I had no idea he'd grab onto the idea and literally run off with it," Killian finishes with a sigh.

Emma can feel her head start to throb. "So this is about losing weight still…" she mutters. "God dammit all, Killian, I -"

"Emma, I don't want to fight about this," he interjects softly. "What's done is done. You can't change the past, no matter how much you wish to, believe me." She opens her eyes and some of her anger vanishes when she takes in his slumped posture, the way his head hangs low. He feels guilty about this, just as guilty as she's starting to feel for not putting it together sooner. "Please, let's just not…"

She sighs, bracing her head up with her hand on the back of the couch. It's quiet for a long time; she's not sure what he's thinking, but she's running down a long list of what she should do. What she _wants_ to do is make good on her promise from April - drag him to a clinic herself - but she has no proof of anything. So she works out what the appropriate steps to take should be. It's late enough that she can't do most of them (call Regina, list off most of these things to Regina and let her take the lead, because he's Regina's kid and not Emma's) and that's going to keep her up half the night, probably. "Shit," she mutters, covering her eyes with her hand.

"You can leave," Killian says, quietly enough that she's not sure she's heard him right.

"What?"

"You don't have to stay, not when you're angry with me," he says, not lifting his head up. "You've no obligation to -"

She can't sit here and listen to him talk anymore, this weird distance thing he's doing is too much on top of everything else going on tonight. His next words die on his lips as she stands and stalks out the front door.

-/-

The moment the door slams shut behind her he wants to die. Just lay down on the floor and expire. Perhaps laying down is too much effort and he should just keel over here on the couch. Si and Am can eat him until someone remembers to come and check on his welfare - that's what cats do to crazy old ladies who keep too many of them, isn't it?

Though at the moment, dying seems to take much more effort than he's willing to put in. Killian settles for burying his face in his hands, his fingers gripping his fringe and pulling hard. The pain calms his racing heart, breaks the building panic and despair in his chest that's making it so hard to breathe. He tells himself that's why there's tears in his eyes, not that he's possibly had a very big hand in fucking up Henry's life, and by extension his relationship with Emma. Not the fact that he hasn't felt this guilty since losing Liam and Milah, that it was his fault they died, if he hadn't invited them to the city or insisted they go out -

He pulls hard on his hair again, trying to breathe and derail this train of thought. Beating himself up over it won't bring them back, nor will it save Henry now or bring Emma's forgiveness.

Not that he's sure he deserves it.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, focusing on his breathing and trying very hard to think of nothing else. It's almost midnight when he looks up at the clock. He's not sure he's going to be able to sleep tonight without whisky - but Will would throw a fit if he had to go to the track unscheduled tomorrow, and quite frankly Killian doesn't want to deal with that sober, let alone hungover. He also can't bear the thought of going up to the bedroom, not with the knowledge that Emma should have been there with him tonight.

Jesus and all the saints, what a mess.

He settles for turning off the television - he knew Mulder and Scully would stop whatever bizarre thing was happening, though it was amusing to watch Emma get swept up in the drama of it all. And there goes his heart, breaking into pieces again thinking about her and how she should be here and -

There's a small light on the porch.

Absurd hope blossoms in his chest as he goes to the window to investigate. Emma's sitting on the stairs, staring out into the moonless night. She'd lit the citronella candle for light.

_She didn't leave._

Killian hesitates for a moment before opening the door. "Swan?" He whispers it, afraid if he speaks louder she'll be startled and run for real, realize her mistake in staying and walk out of his life forever.

"I just needed a minute to think," she replies softly. "Or thirty."

He opens the screen door and steps outside. The air hasn't quite gotten the memo that it's September, but he's not complaining yet. It'll be cold soon enough. "May I?" he asks, indicating the spot next to her.

She scoots over a bit, giving him room to sit, bracing his arms on his knees again. After a moment of tense silence, she lets out a gusty sigh. "I'm so angry," she admits.

"Me too."

"With everything. Every_one_. Me, you, Henry, Regina. I don't know where the list stops, but it's long. I just - I don't know what to do," Emma says, looking down.

He sighs heavily. "I wish I had answers, love, but the only one I do have is that whatever you decide will likely have to wait until morning anyway."

She scoffs, kicking her bare feet against the wood of the stairs. "I know. I just... hate not having any idea of what to do about something. Not having a direction."

His immediate quip, '_Emma Swan, not liking a lack of control over something? Perish the thought._' dies on his lips. He rather likes not having his arse handed to him by irate blondes, at least not in this manner, so he holds his tongue for once. There's naught but the sound of frogs chirping away in the night and after a few moments, she leans her head on his shoulder. After a moment, he slides his arm up and around her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. She doesn't say anything more, not even when he urges her to stand and he blows out the candle. She doesn't even say anything when he moves to let her go upstairs alone, just tightens her grip on his hand and pulls him upstairs after her.

It seems neither one of them wants to be alone tonight.

-/-

Emma calls Regina at least twelve times, with increasingly agitated voicemails. ("Hey, call me back." "So, hey, about calling me back…" "Regina, this is really important, pick up your damn phone." "Regina, do not make me drive down to your office and cause a scene, because I swear I will do that.") It isn't until Saturday that she sees Regina in person down in the barns. Instead of saying hello, Emma merely grabs Regina by the arm and drags her outside, away from prying ears. "Where the hell have you been?" Emma demands.

Regina arches an eyebrow. "I've been doing _my job_ and spending time with _my family_, something that you apparently are forgoing in favor of leaving me endless messages."

Emma props her hands on her hips. "Yeah, you can't take thirty seconds to call me back?"

"Emma, I knew I'd see you today," Regina explains, her voice overly patient. "Whatever it is, I figured it could wait to discuss in person. Your tone indicated that's what you were going to suggest if I did call you back, so I simply cut out the middleman."

Emma fights the urge to bury her face in her hands and counts to ten silently. In other circumstances Regina would be right, but this isn't a normal circumstance. This is Henry's _life_. And though she's had two days to figure out how to bring this up, Emma's still nervous about how Regina's going to take it. Emma gnaws the inside of her lip before she asks, "How's Henry doing?"

Both of Regina's eyebrows raise now. "He's fine. He finished in the top thirty this morning, which I'm told is very good for someone who's so new to the sport."

Emma sighs a little, inclining her head. "Not at cross country, in general. School, is he feeling alright, anything like that?"

"I thought you two were on speaking terms again," Regina says, her eyes narrowing slightly. "He hasn't mentioned anything to me about you two fighting."

"We aren't, he's just… I feel like he's hiding something from me," Emma says.

Regina smirks a little. "If you're talking about Miss Milliner, I think we've all figured that out by now."

"It's not about Grace," Emma bites out. "Dammit, Regina, you're not an idiot. Is Henry anorexic or not?"

Regina's eyebrows go up so fast Emma's surprised she hasn't hurt herself. "Excuse me?" Regina asks.

"Is. Henry. Sick?" Emma says clearly.

Regina squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head in such disbelief that Emma has to wonder how much Regina's been working, exactly, if she's missed all these signs and she _lives_ with Henry. "No. Emma, that's insane, Henry's not anorexic. He runs five or six miles a day, practically. You can't do that when you're a teenage boy and not eat like… well, like a horse," Regina explains, but Emma can sense the hesitation in her protest.

"Maybe he's not anorexic, maybe he's bulimic, I don't know," Emma says. "And I looked it up, over-exercising can be part of it. Don't tell me that coach has those kids running that much every day in preparation for what, two or three mile races?"

Regina folds her arms over her chest. "That's _exactly_ what I'm telling you. The point is to get their endurance up so they can run shorter distances and have that extra kick at the end," she explains patiently. "Henry is _fine_. He's a bit more tired than usual, but again, he's a little bit busy at the moment."

Emma recognizes the signs of Regina digging in her heels, but she's pinning a lot of hope on the bit of doubt she still hears in the other woman's voice. Regina's smart. She's observant. Emma just needs to plant the seeds of doubt - she can't make Regina see something she refuses to. "Just keep an eye on him, okay?" Emma asks. "Please. He's been acting weird ever since you guys came back from Kentucky. It's freaking me out and I can't do anything if he's being distant with me."

Regina's lips are pursed and Emma can see the little muscle in her jaw jumping. After a very long moment, she nods once. "I'll keep an eye on him this weekend. I'm going to be out of town on Monday and Tuesday for a few consultations, but I think I can discern if my son is ill in thirty-six hours."

With that, Regina turns on her heel and leaves. Emma sighs, leaning against the wall and sliding down it to crouch on her heels. Absently, she scratches at her tattoo, mentally replaying the conversation and trying to figure out what else she could have said, made Regina realize she was serious and this needed to be taken seriously. _Why_ Regina didn't take this as seriously as she should have? "Fuck…"

_She's looking into it. She knows. You got the ball rolling_, Emma tells herself, flexing her hand before curling it into a fist to stop the scratching. She takes a deep breath, stands, and heads back inside.

* * *

A text from Regina on Sunday night reads, "_Ate every meal I put in front of him. Watched for bathroom patterns. Ran his usual amount. Everything is fine._"

Somehow, this doesn't make Emma feel any better.

On Monday, another brownout has her in the control room bright and early. She barely has time to say good morning to Killian and grab the coffee he's brought her before going upstairs to check the damage. It's not nearly as bad as she expected, but she makes another mental note to talk to the administration about the backup generator.

She's reset Arthur enough times now that she can do it in her sleep and can freely work on the problem of Henry. _Maybe he knew his mom was watching him_, she reasons, getting up to reset the inputs/outputs. _That happens, right? And you pretend everything is fine? Or maybe Regina's right and I'm overthinking everything. Or maybe she's too close to the thing and can't see it? God dammit, Henry…_

The sound of heels clicking down the hall brings her out of her thoughts. "Morning," Ruby says through a yawn as she comes in. "God, I'm beat…"

Emma chuckles, swapping out plugs. "Rough night?"

She can hear the smirk in Ruby's voice as she gets settled in her chair. "Not nearly rough enough, but it got the job done."

"At least save it for TMI Tuesday, Ruby."

"Hey, you asked, boss," Ruby retorts. "Oh, Victor went for the good coffee, you want anything?" Emma shakes her head, gesturing down to the Styrofoam cup on the floor. She imagines Ruby makes a gagging motion before she says, "Right, forgot that you and Mr. Save-a-Horse-Ride-a-Cowboy do that gross couple-y meetup thing."

Emma barks a laugh at that. "We do it every morning, how could you forget?"

"_Now_ who's giving TMI?" Ruby teases, making Emma groan in frustration. She fully blames the lack of caffeine for giving Ruby that easy opening.

A different rhythmic clicking in the hall causes them both to fall silent, both looking towards the door in confusion. A few moments later, Elsa walks in, a scowl on her bespectacled face and the source of the clicking in her hand: she's using a cane. "I fell," she snaps when Ruby's jaw drops. "I had a bad weekend and Anna refuses to let me leave the house without this stupid… _old lady contraption_. I fell and I can't see anything and I couldn't drive myself to work this morning. And _don't_ give me that look Emma because I _know_ Anna texted you and told you to try and keep me happy today and I'll tell you right now that's not going to work."

Emma blinks, not entirely sure what look is on her face and also wondering if she'd missed any messages from Anna - she hasn't checked her phone since she got in. Elsa sits with a huff, practically throwing her cane under the desk which makes Emma jump. "I _hate_ this stupid thing. I'm thirty years old, not eighty!"

Emma stands very still, not sure what to say. "Well," Ruby begins, glancing at Emma with wide, confused eyes, "maybe Anna's just worried -"

"Anna _always_ worries. Anna will worry until the day I die, and she shouldn't have to, and it's my stupid fault Kristoff isn't going back to Colorado like he wants to and -" Elsa breaks off with a choked sob, which kind of short-circuits Emma's brain. She is _not _good at emotions, hers or anyone else's.

Ruby's looking between Elsa and Emma with those same confused eyes. "I think I missed something," she says, sounding very small.

Emma does the only thing she can think of. She grabs Elsa's favorite travel mug and presses it into Ruby's hands. "I'll explain later. Hot water now."

Elsa's fumbling for the box of tissues while Emma digs around in her tea container for something calming. She only knows chamomile and green tea, but even in Elsa's meticulously ordered box she can't find any. "Passionflower," Elsa mutters, taking off her glasses and dabbing at her eyes as Ruby comes back with the mug. "I can't stand chamomile."

Emma finds the right tea bag and sets it to steep. "So, Ruby doesn't know what's going on," she says, sitting in her chair and bracing herself on her knees.

After a moment, Elsa nods. "I thought you might have said something…"

Emma shakes her head. "Anna swore me to secrecy, though now I wonder how long you've known that I've known."

"Since the day you and Killian started going out," Elsa says, toying with the tea bag, probably for something to do with her hands.

"So since day one."

Elsa's mouth twists into a wry smile. "Anna's not very good at hiding things, especially from her big sister."

She dabs at her eyes again as Ruby asks, "Known about what?"

Emma opens her mouth to reply, but Elsa beats her to the punch. "I have multiple sclerosis," she admits with a defeated-sounding sigh. "Anna thinks of herself as my primary caregiver, even though I've told her hundreds of times to go and live her life and not worry about me. Instead, she finds it necessary to recruit everyone else to secretly take care of me, thinking I don't notice when people start acting differently around me. It's a sweet thought, but in reality it's very annoying." Emma feels her face grow hot. Elsa doesn't notice. "Sometimes I have bad days - those can be anything. I fell on Saturday night, which is the worst because then it's another round of doctors and…" She pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "It's very stressful, and it brings a lot of change."

Emma glances over at Ruby, who looks like she wants to ask something else, but then thinks better of it. Really, Emma's more impressed that Elsa's kept her condition hidden from Ruby for the three years they've worked together. Elsa takes a sip of her tea and Emma wants to ask about her comment about Kristoff, but decides she should probably ask Anna instead. Elsa's upset enough as it is, there's no reason to bring this up and make her feel worse. She slips her glasses back on and glares at Emma and Ruby as the phone rings for the morning's changes. "One word about taking things easy or taking some time off and I swear I will make your lives miserable," Elsa threatens.

Ruby salutes while she starts talking to Billy and Emma nods. "Wouldn't dream of it. I can't do your job anyway," she says. Elsa smirks a little at that, sitting back in her chair with her mug, and Emma looks away after the smirk falls.

She checks her phone, and lo and behold there's three missed called, a voicemail, and a text from Anna warning her that Elsa's in a terrible mood. _My own fault for leaving it in my purse_, she thinks as Victor and Jefferson come in.

The sight of Jefferson - with the brim of his hat pulled low over his face, leaving his sharply contoured cheekbones as his first noticeable feature - sends Emma's thoughts hurtling back to Henry. She sighs, resting her head in her hands; it's hardly eleven and she can already feel the migraine forming.

* * *

On Thursday morning, Emma makes the effort to head down to the track stables before going up to the booth. She finds David talking to the farrier and she even manages to control her urge to embarrass him until after the farrier leaves - she's already going to get Ruby to make a graphic to display at one point during pre-race coverage. David turns to her, a resigned look on his face, and beckons with one hand. Emma just grins and hip-checks him. "Happy birthday, loser. How does it feel to be almost-thirty and ancient?"

He reaches over and messes up her hair. "I'm keeping every comment you throw at me in mind for _your_ birthday next month, remember that."

Emma nods sagely. "Of course. But you might want to take a few ginseng tablets or something just to be safe, old man. Wouldn't want your memory to give out before that."

"Keep talking, sis, you're just making it worse for yourself," David comments, crossing his arms and grinning.

"You gonna wave a cane at me and tell me to get off your lawn?" she teases.

"Nah, just take off my slipper and throw it at you," he counters.

She laughs. "God, remember when your grandma did that to your dad that one Thanksgiving?"

"She did it all the time when I was a kid," David says, smiling at the memory. "Nailed him in the back of the head all the way from the kitchen once."

She smiles and opens her mouth to say something else, but a familiar Irish lilt breaks in, "Swan? What're you doing down here?"

She glanced over her shoulder. "Hey," she tells Killian as he walks up and kisses her cheek, sliding one arm around her waist. She sees David glancing away out of the corner of her eye. "Come to join in on the birthday bants?"

He grins for a moment at her obvious theft of one of his words - and terrible imitation of his accent - but then his face falls. "Love, it's not _your_ -?"

She thumbs the scruff on his chin, smiling indulgently. "No, it's David's, the old fart. Mine's in October, remember?"

David snorts, but Killian grins. "Aye. Many happy returns, then."

"_Thank _you, Jones," David says, and glances at her. "See, Emma, some people can congratulate others without resorting to jokes in poor taste."

She rolls her eyes. "My jokes are in excellent taste, thanks." He snorts again, and Killian squeezes her hip. She smiles at him briefly, then lightly punches David on the shoulder. "Gotta run, you two. Dave, don't tire yourself out much today, apparently there's a full evening ahead of you."

"Oh, I'm well aware of that," he says, grinning.

There's a glint in his eye that makes Emma gag. "Gross. _So_ don't want to know about that."

"In fairness to Dave, love, you left that one wide open," Killian explains.

"Do not defend him!" Emma exclaims, mock-outraged.

"His birthday, his rules."

David claps Killian on the shoulder. "See, now why hasn't this happened before? I could actually start to like you, Jones."

Emma rolls her eyes, throwing her hands up in the air in defeat. Why does everyone she know insist on bonding with Killian by teasing her? She steps out of Killian's embrace without another word and stalks down the aisle. Their laughter follows her out of the barns.

* * *

It's astounding the amount of noise two six-year old boys can make. Emma even made sure to have them run off their extra energy outside, but the sun sets earlier now and she knew Mary Margaret and Regina would frown upon letting the boys run around in the dark. So now, with light fading fast outside, Emma's going over some budget and funding papers from the commissioner's offices while Leo and Roland screech at each other over Mario Kart. There's a lot of "You cheated, no lightning bolts!" and "Nuh-uh!"s happening, and Emma finds herself idly wishing for some earplugs. Or a glass of wine.

She loves her nephew, and she's grown to love little Roland too, but damn, kids can be annoying.

"_Okay_," she hollers over the arguing after a particularly bad Blue Shell incident. "How about next time you decide before the race what's not allowed, okay?"

Leo ducks his head. "Okay, Aunt Emma…"

"Sorry, Emma," Roland apologizes.

She nods. "It's alright, just… enough yelling. I'm getting a headache."

Truthfully, she's had a headache almost constantly for almost a week now. Between Henry, Elsa, the boys, and now this review for next year's budget she was certain that there was just going to be a constant throbbing in her skull forever. It's with dismay that she notices it's only a quarter past seven - David and Mary Margaret won't be back until after ten, probably. She's going to have to fortify herself somehow to make it through the next couple of hours.

She settles for an Excedrin and some of Mary Margaret's hidden chocolate stash, making sure to throw away the evidence of candy before going back into the living room. The _last_ thing she needs is two six-year olds on sugar highs. It's bad enough that they keep forgetting to use indoor voices; though whenever one of them does start to yell, he'll glance over his shoulder and meet Emma's pointed glare before behaving again.

Close to eight, her phone rings, bringing her out of a numbers stupor. It's Regina, which is odd, because she's supposed to be with Robin listening to him talk about something. "Hey, Regina, what's up?" Emma answers.

"Hi Mommy!" Roland calls, sitting up on his knees and mashing the buttons on his controller.

Regina chuckles on her end. "Tell him I said hello." Emma does. "Emma, we're going to be running late tonight. I told Henry we'd pick him up, but Robin's caught up with some networking business with some of the deans. I doubt we'll be out of here anytime soon."

"Shouldn't he be able to run home by now?" Emma asks, idly twirling her pen in her fingers as Leo plummets off Rainbow Road. Again.

"And get hit by a car in the dark? Don't be stupid, Emma," Regina retorts.

"Alright, alright. Geez," Emma mutters, running her fingers and the pen through her hair. "I don't know who's looking forward to Henry getting his license more, him or the rest of us playing chauffeur."

"I'm sure it's about even," Regina says drily. "Henry's supposed to be done at eight-thirty. I'll text him and let him know the change of plans."

Emma hangs up and realizes after that she doesn't have car seats for either of the boys. _Shit. _Glancing at the clock again, they probably have enough time to drive to the Horn if she puts them both in the back seat and goes _very_ slowly. She sighs as her head starts to throb again, despite taking the medicine earlier. _Fucking hell, Regina… Or Robin. Both. Whatever._ "Okay boys, pause the game. We gotta go get Henry," she says aloud.

"Can't we stay here?" Leo asks, his eyes not leaving the screen.

"Uh, _no,_" she retorts, getting up.

"We'll be super _extra _good, we promise," Roland pleads.

Emma moves to stand in front of the screen, propping her hands on her hips. Behind her are the anguished cries of video game characters as they careen off the road into the depths of space, but she can't bring herself to care. Both boys look like they're about to argue, then they sigh simultaneously. "Fine…"

She would have found it funny if she wasn't preoccupied with everything else. "Shoes, jackets, now please," Emma says, turning off the TV and console while they race to comply.

She shrugs into her jacket and slips on her boots, taking the boys out to the Bug. It's a good thing most of the roads to the Horn are back country roads: she's serious about driving there slowly. It's a nerve wracking 45-minute drive and she white-knuckles it the whole time - despite zero other cars being on the road - but they make it to the Horn in one piece and plenty of complaints from the back seat about going too slowly. "Stick with me, don't go running after the horses," Emma tells both boys as she helps them out of the car.

"Like at home, they get spooked," Leo adds helpfully.

"Right."

She leads them both into the warm, well-lit stable by the hand. It's late, most of the crew is out for the night; it's always weird to be here when she can't hear Will talking a mile a minute with one of the guys, half his words unintelligible as his accent gets thicker and thicker. One of the guys she and the boys run across tells her that Killian's teaching Henry how to treat an abscess. Emma nods her thanks and pulls the boys along to Bluff's stall. She can hear Killian talking softly as they approach. She leans over the door, smirking when she sees Killian kneeling next to Henry, one hand stroking Bluff's side to keep him calm. "Hey," she says softly. The boys grip the bars of the lower part of the door, peering in to watch what Henry's doing.

Killian glances up, giving her that crooked smile she likes so much. "Hello love, lads. Almost done here, Henry's just got a case of nerves."

Emma notices the slight tremor in Henry's hands as he stares at the lump on Bluff's leg; lancing an abscess is never fun, she remembers. "Do not," she hears Henry mumble. She smiles a bit at his stubbornness.

"Then stick it, lad," Killian retorts. He nudges the bowl with the poultice forward with his foot, so Henry has it ready to wrap when he's done.

Emma watches as Henry resets his mouth into a grim line and grabs Bluff's leg. "What's he gonna do?" Leo asks in a stage-whisper.

"Eeeeeeew!" Roland declares loudly as Henry lances the growth.

Emma shushes him just as Bluff lunges, whinnying and fighting the chain on his halter. Killian fumbles, scrambling to grab the chain or the halter or both, talking Irish the whole time. Henry quickly drops the needle on the floor and grabs a handful of poultice to smear over the lump, trying to hold Bluff's leg still. Bluff tosses his head, jerking at the chain keeping him tethered - Killian curses the air blue as the skin on his palm catches between the links of the chain. He grabs at the halter with his other hand, trying to haul the panicking animal down.

Emma's watching this all-too familiar scene with adrenaline gushing through her veins and her wrists itching like crazy. "Leo, Roland, come here, come away from the door -"

She's reaching down for their hands when Bluff tries to rear and yanks the chain right out of the wall. Killian curses again, dodging hooves and trying to pull Bluff down again. Emma sucks in a breath, fear and memory freezing her in place.

"_James, maybe you should go back up to the house, I can take care of this myself."_

"_Emma, I'm not leaving you by yourself with a flighty mare."_

She squeezes her eyes shut, willing the memory away. She's not seventeen, this is not the Point, Killian is not James. Killian grunts when a hoof connects with his stomach. "Bloody _fuck_," he curses loudly, curling in on himself a little, dragging Bluff onto all four legs. "Henry, get the fucking poultice on!"

"Uncle 'Ian said bad words," Leo breathes.

"Three times," Roland agrees.

The boys snap Emma back to the present. "Come on, away from the door," she tells them tersely, grabbing their hands and pulling them away from the stall. She sits them both on a bale of hay and makes sure they're both looking at her. "Don't move," she tells them. "You have to promise me you'll sit right here and won't get up."

She waits until they both nod before she takes a deep breath, letting out slowly. Killian and Henry need an extra pair of hands, but if Bluff's skittish it might make things worse. She turns, hands shaking with nerves, and walks back to the stall just as she hears Henry do some pretty intense swearing of his own. "Henry?" Emma asks, reaching through the bars to unlatch the door. He's on the floor, white as a sheet and holding his left shoulder. She gasps, throwing the door open, forgetting everything else but her Little Brother lying hurt on the floor. "Henry, Jesus Christ, did he kick you -"

"Swan, watch it!" Killian shouts as Bluff lunges for the open door.

Her head whips up just in time to see Bluff wrench himself out of Killian's hold, rearing up and lashing out with his hooves. Emma ducks out of the way, covering her head with her arms just as Killian shoves her down. She hears a dull crack and then a loud bang, and the unmistakable sound of hooves on cement - Bluff has escaped his stall and it's her stupid fault for opening the door in the first place. She lifts her head, expecting Killian to start yelling for one of the evening crew to catch him before he gets too far, but there's nothing. "Emma," Henry croaks.

She looks down at him, noticing that he's staring off to her left. She follows his gaze -

Killian's lying on the ground, eyes closed.

Emma's vision swims as echoes from years ago try to take over her mind. "Killian?" she whispers, her entire body feeling like a bucket of ice water has been poured over her.

"_James?"_

He looks like he's sleeping, why is he sleeping? Bluff's on the loose, he needs to get up so they can go catch him. Henry didn't get the poultice wrapped, Bluff's going to hurt himself, and then Regina's going to be pissed because one of her prize horses has gone lame. "Killian, come on," Emma says, reaching over and nudging him.

He always wakes up when she touches him - even if she's just coming back to bed in the middle of the night from the bathroom, he's awake the instant she cuddles up to him again, muttering about how he missed her and kissing her and usually trying to start something before she has to remind him that it's still two hours until his alarm goes off. That he isn't waking up now not only sends alarm bells ringing through her brain but her arms are starting to feel numb now too.

"_James, get up, this isn't funny anymore!"_

Emma takes a shuddering breath, squashing the memory of her foster father away, because Killian is _not_ \- he _can't _-

Under the numbness, her heart thumps against her ribs like she's just run a million miles. She needs to _do_ something, she can't just sit here, Henry's hurt and Killian's - sleeping. She reaches into her pocket, fumbling for her phone with fingers that can't feel anything and struggles to dial 911 - the freckles on Henry's face look absurd over his pale skin and the blue-purple circles under his eyes are ten times more noticeable than usual. "Hi," Emma says when the operator answers, and she's astonished that her voice isn't shaking. "I need an ambulance - maybe two, there's two people hurt, do you guys double up on patients? Weird question, sorry. Um… teenage male, I think the horse broke his collarbone or his shoulder or something, and an adult male, I didn't see what happened but he's… I think… I _hope_ he's unconscious -" her voice cracks and she stops before she breaks completely.

She manages to rattle off the address to the Horn and where they are before she feels tears in her eyes and hangs up. She sets her phone on the ground and takes another deep breath, trying to focus on the important things. "Henry, we're gonna get you to a hospital, okay? It's going to be fine, they'll fix your shoulder and everything's going to be _fine_," she says, reaching over and smoothing his hair down with a shaking hand.

He shakes his head and closes his eyes, leaving Emma confused. "Emma!" Roland calls. "Demon ran away but this nice man is bringing him back!"

She closes her eyes and tries to breathe. She'd completely forgotten the boys in - what had it been, like five minutes? It takes her a few tries before she can stand, and the stable hand from earlier - the bald guy with the impressive, dark mustache - has Bluff by the chain he'd yanked out of the wall. Jesus, everything had gone to hell so fast. "I need help," she says. "They're hurt, I don't know if I should -"

The stable hand nods and goes to hitch Bluff in the cross ties down the way. "He'll keep for a mo'," the stable hand says. "Realized runnin' was an awful idea with that leg o' his, calmed right down."

In Bluff's stall, the stable hand kneels. "Dunno about moving them, Miss Swan. You called for help?"

She nods, not bothering to ask how he knew who she was - stable hands (and Will Scarlet) were notorious gossips. "Ambulance is on its way."

"Good. I don't want to make them worse, we'll leave 'em. You look awful pale, miss, you should go sit," he tells her, watching her with concern etched on his face.

Emma doesn't want to sit, but she doesn't want to stand either. "I'm fine," she insists instead. Her gaze drifts over to Killian - there's an awful looking bruise forming on his chin and she has to look away. "Tell me your name," she says. "Anything, just… talk, please."

"Name's Lewis," he says. "Mr. Jones brought me in about, oh, four or five months back, right before we lost Pride of War."

He keeps talking, telling her about what he does here, but a wave of nausea overcomes Emma and she spends more time trying to keep her dinner down than paying attention. Of course he'd bring up Pride while they're waiting for an ambulance because Henry's passed out from pain on the stable floor and Killian's -

"_RUTH! DAVID! PHILLIP, SOMEONE HELP!"_

She is not seventeen years old, this is not the Point, Killian is not James.

Finally, the wail of sirens cuts through the night and her suppressed memories. Lewis offers to go meet them. "Keep an eye on the kids, yeah?"

Emma turns, feeling dazed as she looks at Leo and Roland sitting patiently on the hay bale where she'd left them. She'd forgotten about them again. Her legs don't quite feel like legs as she walks over to them, kneeling down. "Boys, we have to go to the hospital," she says quietly. She doesn't know how to explain it, if she even can.

"Is it Henry?" Roland asks. A frown looks so out of place on his usually cheery, dimply face.

"Yeah," she whispers hoarsely. "Yeah, Henry's hurt."

"Is Uncle 'Ian okay?" Leo wants to know.

Her eyes burn with unshed tears and she can only shake her head as the EMTs come in with stretchers. She's grateful that Lewis is here to point them in the right direction, because Emma can't trust her voice right now. She gathers both Leo and Roland into her arms, holding them tight as Henry, and then Killian, are loaded and strapped onto the stretchers. She can hear both boys asking more questions but her brain doesn't register the words, the only thing she can focus on is the team of EMTs wheeling the stretchers away.

There's a hand on her shoulder; she glances at it and then up at Lewis, watching her with that same worried look on his face as before. "Come on, Miss Swan, let's get you and the boys to the hospital."

She doesn't balk when he offers to drive, even though it's her car. (Lewis, like just about everyone in the business of horses, drives a truck.) Leo and Roland are still asking questions as they pull out of the Horn and head up the road; Lewis is doing his best to answer them. Emma's just trying to remember how to breathe.

_She's seventeen again, slowly working through her list of chores before Ruth calls her up for dinner. The spring air is heavy with a storm on the way, thunder rumbling off in the distance. She's mucked out her assigned stalls and mixed the dinners; one more horse and then she's done for the night. She's tired, there's dirt smeared on her face and arms, and she can feel the itchy bits of straw stuck in her hair._

_But she's tired in a good way, a satisfied way, because she's doing work that means something. She's earning her keep in a way that helps everyone out, not just whatever some scumbag foster parent cooks up to make it look like there's chores when the case officers come around. She's not being forced to keep an entire house of nine people clean while the 'dad' sits on the couch guzzling beer, while the 'mom' talks on the phone and smacks whichever kid is in charge of 'dinner' with a wooden spoon when things aren't going right._

_She shakes her head and grabs her pitchfork, walking down the aisle to the foaling stalls. Working helps her issues. It works out her anger problems, makes her less punch-happy. Even if David's the one throwing the punches these days, the idiot._

_But there's James, looking a little unsteady on his feet as he's going down to Bluebell's stall. Emma frowns just as another rumble of thunder outside sounds closer than the one before. "James?"_

_He turns and smiles. "Emma, I thought you'd be back up at the house by now."_

"_Not yet, it's my turn to take care of Bluebell."_

_He stumbles a little, and she runs up to steady him. She can smell the bourbon on him and frowns. She knows James likes a stiff drink every now and then, but if she can _smell _it on him… She pushes down the anxiety that comes from too many homes with too many drunks - this is _James_. He's not going to hurt her. He grins. "Sorry, musta tripped on something… one of the boys left out…"_

_Emma knows better. "James, maybe you should go back up to the house, I can take care of this myself."_

_He shakes his head. "Emma, I'm not leaving you by yourself with a flighty mare."_

_Her frown deepens. Bluebell's hardly flighty, even if she is pregnant. But she recognizes the stubborn way his jaw is set and doesn't argue. "Alright. It'll go faster with two of us, and then we can go eat."_

_James is okay while he leads Bluebell out and lets Emma muck out the stall quickly, the storm rumbling closer while they worked. She wants to get done fast, doesn't really like the idea of sprinting back up to the house in a spring downpour, up that hill in the mud. Ruth would make her shower before dinner for sure, and Emma's starving._

_James is even steady while he fixes Bluebell's dinner properly. Emma had expected grain spilled over half the floor, more cleanup work to be done, but maybe the bourbon was from earlier, maybe he was sobering up. She doesn't like thinking that he was drunk while working all day, but he hadn't driven anywhere, right? And he was just down in the stables…_

_The next crack of thunder is loud, right overhead, and makes Emma jump with a scream. She can't stand loud noises, not anymore, not after -_

_Bluebell rears up, letting out a scream that makes the hair on Emma's arms stand straight up. She starts to move, starts to help James calm Bluebell down when the mare kicks out, her hoof colliding with James' head._

_The air leaves Emma's body in a rush as James' body hits the stable floor._ Holy shit. _She's seen him dodge horses dozens of times, his reflexes are crazy good. This is a joke, this has to be a joke, he's trying to get her to lighten up about earlier. "James?"_

_Bluebell's dancing around, still hitched to one of the cross ties, restless from the rumbling storm overhead. James doesn't move._

"Emma!"

She blinks as Lewis' voice breaks through her memory. She turns towards him, and then back at Leo and Roland. It takes a few moments for her brain to catch up, that she's in her car, she's not seventeen anymore, she has two little boys to look after. "What?"

"We're here. Are you alright, Miss Swan? Shaken up a bit, yeah?" Lewis asks.

"Yeah…" she mumbles, really not wanting to go into it and unbuckling her seatbelt and getting out of the car.

With Leo and Roland firmly in hand, they walk into the emergency room with Lewis a step behind. Emma's relieved to see that the waiting room is fairly empty. She doesn't have the strength to deal with the boys asking questions about stab wounds or old people having heart attacks everywhere or anything like that - it's Storybrooke, not New York, but weirder things have happened. "Aunt Emma, your hands are all shaky," Leo says quietly as they walk up to the registration.

"Sorry, kiddo," Emma says and takes another deep breath to hopefully calm down.

The registration nurse smiles kindly as they reach the desk. "Can I help you?" she asks.

"Hi. I, er… I know someone here? Patients, I mean, two someones," Emma stammers.

The nurse nods, wiggling the mouse on her computer. "Okay, did they come in themselves?"

"No, ambulance."

"Ah, the two horse accident patients? Looks like they just arrived," the nurse says, squinting at the screen.

"Are they okay?" Emma asks, her heart starting to race. Killian's not - he _can't_ be - "They were - does it say if they're awa - talking - anything?"

The nurse purses her lips, then shakes her head. "Nothing yet, they're probably being examined now. Are you the wife and mother?"

Whatever blood is left in Emma's face leaves, her skin itching like crazy. She can't let go of Leo or Roland to scratch her wrists like she's desperate to. "Oh, God, I…"

The nurse peers at her over her glasses. Is it Emma's imagination or does she look amused? "Standard question, relax. I can see that's a no. Relation to the patients?"

Emma licks her lips before flattening them into a line. "Complicated?"

"This isn't Facebook, honey."

Emma sighs gustily. "I'm Henry's," she pauses, trying to remember the official terms she'd been taught so many years ago, buried under time and nerves and adrenaline, "youth mentor, I guess? Killian's my - my person. Partner."

The nurse looks like she wants to say something else, but shakes her head again, muttering something to herself about young people and slang. "Is there someone in the boy's family we can call? He's underage and needs proper I.D., if he wakes up he can't consent to any further medical testing."

Emma nods, her throat feeling a bit tight. The nurse hands her a sticky note and a pen; Emma writes down Regina's name and phone number. "We'll need you to identify the adult male," the nurse says as she takes the sticky note. "He didn't have I.D. on him and he's still unresponsive."

Emma wants to throw up - not a terrible place to do so, the hospital, but she probably shouldn't at the registration desk. "He," she croaks, then swallows and tries again, "he's alive though?"

The nurse peered at Emma over her glasses again, this time with some sympathy. "Emily can take you to where he's being examined," she says, nodding to the other woman at the desk. Emma hadn't even noticed her. "The children are not permitted in the department for health and safety reasons."

Emma glances down at the boys. "Aunt Emma, what's going on?" Leo asks.

"Where's Henry?" Roland wants to know.

She kneels down so she's on eye level with them. She hopes she looks a lot braver than she feels, because right now all she wants to do is pick them both up and get the hell out of Dodge. "I don't know, but they're going to take me to see Killian. Roland, the nurse is going to call Regina, okay? She'll be here soon and they'll tell her about Henry."

"Why can't we come too?" Roland asks, looking on the verge of tears. "I want to see Henry."

Oh God, if he starts crying, she's definitely going to lose it. "I don't know, kiddo, maybe someone's really sick and they don't want you to get it," she says, her voice wavering. "I want you to stay with Lewis, okay? I'll be back as soon as I can."

Above her, Lewis says, "I'll keep an eye on 'em, Miss Swan."

She nods and squeezes both boys' hands before standing. Emily's waiting for her. Emma glances over her shoulder at Leo and Roland, looking so impossibly tiny next to burly Lewis, just before the doors close behind her.

God, she hates the smell of hospitals. It's a combination of industrial-strength cleaning products, sickness sweat, and medicine. And it's stupidly clean with the blinding white walls and tiled floors, made all the brighter by the fluorescent lights above, making her think she's walking some ethereal hall of death. Even the doctors and nurses have white scrubs or lab coats.

She really, really hates hospitals.

"_Mrs. Nolan, I'm sorry. We did everything we could, but..."_

Emma squeezes her eyes shut again. She's got to keep it together, hold it in… "He's in here," Emily announces softly, pausing at a window.

Emma clutches at the window pane, her legs feeling more like Jell-o than flesh and bone and _fuck_. He looks so broken, somehow worse than he did on the stable floor, laid out on the bed and surrounded by nurses. He's so pale, save for his his closed eyes looking like they're ringed in bruises and the garish black and red mark spreading along his jaw and under his scruff. Emma turns away from the glass, covering her mouth before any screams or sobs escape her. She can't breathe here, she needs to leave, needs to get out, she's suffocating -

"Miss Swan, look at me." Emily's urging cuts through Emma's panic as small, firm hands grip her shoulders. She looks up, wide-eyed and frantic. Emily's gaze is calm, steady. Emma latches on to that steadiness, needing some kind of stability right now when the whole world feels like it's crumbling under her feet. "Tell me your full name," Emily says now.

"Emma Swan," she whispers. If she had a middle name, she didn't know it. No one had ever cared to give her more than her first name, the foster system keeping the surname of the family who had kept her longest before the Nolans.

"Birthday."

"October twenty-third, 1986." So they told her. She realizes Emily's doing that thing where Emma has to state facts, get her to calm down by surrounding her with the truth. Henry did that, she knew, Dr. Hopper recommended it.

"Tell me his full name."

"Killian Cormac Jones."

"His birthday."

Emma hesitates, trying to do math in her head and failing. "I... January twelfth. I don't - he's thirty-two, I can't remember how -"

"It's okay. We can work with that. Come on, let's go back to your boys," Emily says, her voice calm and soothing.

Emma allows herself to be pulled along before she digs her heels in. "I didn't see, is he -"

Emily looks over her shoulder, her expression carefully neutral. "We have social workers who will keep you updated if anything changes," is all she says before leading Emma back to the waiting room.

They're taken to a private waiting area where it won't be an issue if the boys get loud - or if Emma starts crying, she's not sure which will happen first. Roland still looks like he's about to start crying any second now and Leo's looking lost, so Emma sits them both on her lap and holds them close. Lewis sits nearby, close to talk if she wants to but still giving them space. He's sitting with his arms stretched over a few chairs, watching the news on the small television in the corner. Emma takes a shuddering breath: this is completely, stupidly_, utterly _too familiar for comfort.

"_James?" She hates how small her voice sounds, how tiny and alone and _broken _she sounds. She's not _broken _anymore, she's _healing_, James and Ruth and David are putting her pieces back together and this is _not cool_. "James, get up, this isn't funny anymore!"_

_He's still not moving and she can't breathe because it feels like something is closing around her throat and now she sees blood on the stable floor and holy shit, holy shit, holy shit - "RUTH! DAVID! PHILLIP, SOMEONE HELP!" Emma screams, rushing over to James and trying to wake him up._

_The storm breaks overhead, rain pounding on the roof of the stable as Emma's entire world changes for the dozenth time. James' eyes don't open, no matter how much she screams for help or shakes his shoulder, not even when Phillip finally comes running up and swears like she's never heard him swear before. He tries telling Emma to run up to the house, get Ruth, but Emma can't leave, what if James wakes up? She has to tell him how angry she is with him for scaring the shit out of her like this._

_Eventually Ruth is there, and then David comes running in, pale and soaked from the rain and asking a hundred questions a second. At some point, someone leads Bluebell back into her stall, but Emma isn't really paying attention, her eyes not leaving James' face. Even when the ambulance comes, Emma almost follows them into the back, but Ruth - _crying _Ruth, and that would be terrifying if Emma wasn't already numb because this is _Ruth _and Ruth just doesn't cry over every little thing - she holds Emma back._

_She doesn't even remember getting into the car, going to the hospital, all she remembers is sitting in that cold, white, unfriendly hospital waiting room. Ruth still crying. David not looking at any of them, staring at the floor and completely shut down - Emma knows the feeling._

_This her fault. All of this is her fault, her stupid, stupid fault. If she'd only insisted that she take care of Bluebell herself, if she hadn't screamed, if she hadn't been so completely fucking _stupid _to frighten a horse in the stables, if she had been stronger and not frightened of a storm, James would… James wouldn't be..._

_And then the social worker leading them into a private room, away from everyone else waiting for their news, good or bad or forever waiting in this white hell. "Mrs. Nolan, I'm sorry. We did everything we could, but..."_

Roland is pulling out of Emma's grasp, jerking her out of her daze. _Regina_.

She's pale and her hair's a wreck and she looks like she's been crying - her makeup isn't as cleaned up as she probably wanted it to be. "Emma, is he all right?" Regina asks sharply, her voice just as broken as Emma feels, but all she can do is shrug helplessly. No one has been by yet with any updates.

Robin is there too, cradling Roland to his chest as the little boy finally gives in to his urge to cry. Regina allows herself to be tucked into the little fold of family, looking like she wants nothing more than to start crying again herself. Emma holds Leo against her a little tighter; she's starting to feel shaky, the adrenaline starting to leave her body, leaving her to deal with the brunt of emotion without it's soothing numbness.

"I'm going to go talk to someone," Regina mutters after a moment, discretely wiping her eyes with her fingers before pulling out of Robin's embrace and walking out of the room.

Robin comes to sit next to Emma. "Are you alright, Emma?" he asks quietly.

She shakes her head. She knows if she talks now she's going to cry. Her strength is gone, she can only keep her silence to keep herself from shattering to pieces. Not talking and holding on to her nephew like a lifeline are the only things keeping her from crumbling to the floor.

James is dead and it's her fault.

Killian… she doesn't know if he's still alive or if he's dying right now or if he's dead and they won't tell her because she's not… they're not…

This is her fault too.

If she hadn't been so stupid, so desperate to get to Henry and make sure he was alright, the door wouldn't be open. Bluff wouldn't have charged the door, trying to get to freedom, get away from the needles that hurt. Emma wouldn't have been in the way. Killian wouldn't have pushed her out of the way, wouldn't have gotten hurt, wouldn't…

This is her fault.

"David," she whispers, feeling her entire soul shattering inside as hot tears well up in her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She needs David, needs her brother, he's the only one who understands what she's going through right now. He gets it, he's been here, he lost James too.

She fumbles for her phone, but after a full minute of blind searching, tears falling free and fast down her face does she remember she set it on the floor of Bluff's stall ages and ages ago. It's probably destroyed by now. Emma's shaking, she can hear Leo asking what's going on again, and Robin's on the phone now, but everything feels like it's very, very far away from where she is right now.

Someone tries to take Leo from her but Emma clings to him, sucking in a breath and wanting to scream "_No_", because if she loses Leo too she's lost everything. Someone grips her hand and forces it open - when had she made a fist, for her fingers to ache so much? - pressing a Styrofoam cup into it. There's voices and then they're putting the cup to her mouth, making her drink the hot, sweet tea.

It burns in a good way. They alternate between making her drink more of the sugary tea and wiping the tears from her face. Eventually Emma comes back to herself enough to see Robin looking at her with so much concern on his face that she wants to start crying again. "Finish drinking this," she hears him say, pressing the cup more firmly in her hand. "You're crashing and you need the sugar boost."

It's easier to obey than to question, so Emma does that while he gets her another. He makes her drink the second cup slower, crouching in front of her and talking in a low, comforting voice to Leo the entire time.

She's just about drained the second cup when David bursts into the room, looking around frantically, and Leo's scrambling off her lap screaming "DADDY!" and throwing himself at David's legs. Emma feels shaky again, watching David pick up Leo and holding him like Robin had held Roland earlier.

Roland.

Emma looks around, and sees Regina has come back at some point. She's holding Roland, stroking his curls softly. Guilt piles on top of everything else Emma's feeling at the sight - Robin's fussing over her and her complete inadequacy to take care of herself in a crisis when his son needs him more.

"Emma," David says and she lurches to her feet, stumbling over into his one-armed hug.

His hand cradles her head and he just holds her; she feels him kiss the side of her head, murmuring comforting words to her and she wants to break, wants to cling to him and just cry all over again. "We need to leave," she mumbles, her breath hitching in her throat.

"Okay. Mary Margaret's waiting in the car," he says softly.

Mary Margaret.

It's David's birthday.

_Fuck._

Emma stumbles away, hating herself for somehow finding the perfect way to _completely_ fuck everything up tonight in such a spectacular fashion. She looks back at everyone sitting in this waiting room, all here because she can't keep her head in a crisis, and she can't _breathe_. "Emma, let's just go home," David says, putting his hand on her back and guiding her out.

This is her fault.

It's always her fault.

She's silent during the long ride back to the Point in the truck-it's not until they're halfway home that she remembers Lewis still has her keys, that the Bug is sitting in the parking lot of the hospital. But David doesn't say anything, doesn't push her into anything she doesn't want to do. Mary Margaret starts to ask questions a few times, but David asks her to leave Emma alone. Leo's propped against Emma, falling asleep at some point during the ride that feels like it lasts a hundred years.

Emma tries not to think about another drive back to the Point in a pickup truck, a flirty Irish horse trainer in the driver's seat trying to cheer her up.

It works, only because instead of seeing his face as it should be - lively and handsome - she can only see him pale and bruised and lifeless on the bed in the emergency room.

When they finally, finally arrive home, Emma pushes past everyone into the house in favor of taking the stairs two at a time and not-quite-slamming the attic door behind her as she retreats into her sanctuary. There, she collapses into her bed, curling herself around her favorite pillows. Emma stares out at the night sky, exhausted and completely wired all at once. There aren't any tears left, but her eyes burn with the need to do something, her lungs burning because she still. Can't. _Breathe_.

_My fault. Always my fault._

The thought keeps her awake, tense and afraid of what the night would bring if she let herself close her eyes. Her body trembles and her chest tightens almost painfully for hours until the stars fade into a pearly pre-dawn, birdsong floating in through her open windows. She misses the sunrise when her body finally gives out into a blessed, dreamless sleep.

* * *

**There are three side stories that aren't required reading to continue on from here, but the information there helps. _Fruit of the Alder Tree, Got the Bit Between Your Teeth_, and _The Forest for the Trees_ all deal with Henry's storyline, and what Regina has been doing that she hasn't noticed yet.**

**Chapter warnings: references to childhood abuse; frank discussions about eating disorders, unhealthy weight management, and graphic body descriptions; references to alcoholism and alcohol abuse; traumatic flashbacks; reference to character death; traumatic accidents and injuries; reference to underage smoking; mild references to self-harm.**


	17. September 26-29

**There are three companion stories that will be referenced as we move forward. _Fruit of the Alder Tree, Got the Bit Between Your Teeth_, and_ The Forest for the Trees_. All take place during the last 5 chapters and directly deal with Henry's storyline.**

**Thanks to idoltina for being the best beta, and thanks to Philyra for telling me to cool my jets and let the story play out as it will.**

**Chapter warnings: graphic discussion of injuries.**

* * *

Emma sleeps until the afternoon on Friday, missing work completely. She should probably feel some guilt about that, but her emotions have checked out until further notice. There's an emptiness inside of her - and she kind of likes that. It's amazing what not feeling anything does to a person. Really, all she wants to do is sleep. Staying in bed all day is the best idea she's had in ages: she ignores the sunshine streaming in through her windows and any attempts from her family to get her to come downstairs.

The bed is safe. She can't hurt anyone from the bed.

It's kind of a relief to not have a phone, too. No way for anyone to reach her, no driving need to check some e-mail or social media page or text… or look at any pictures… It's freeing in its own way.

She can't hurt anyone here. No one can hurt her.

Emma doesn't dream, either - not at first. Sometime after midnight, she finally gives in to the hunger and slips downstairs to force herself to eat and drink something. She's careful going up and down the stairs, not wanting to wake anyone and cause them to want to talk to her. She uses the bathroom, trying not to look at her reflection in the mirror when she washes her hands. But when she goes upstairs and tries to sleep again, that's when the dreams come. Or rather, that's when the nightmares come.

_She dreams of hooves and screams. She can't move, or moves like she's in molasses. She can't get to Henry in time, she can only watch as he's trampled to death in a stampede. She dreams of the forest and walking with Killian, talking and laughing with him, turning to find that he's just gone, leaving her stranded and alone -_

It's dawn when she wakes again; her sheets feel too confining, trapping her in place. She throws most of her covers off, trying to calm her racing heart. Emma's chest feels tight and her eyes burn with the urge to start crying again but there's just - she has no energy _left_ to cry. She's exhausted even though she's done almost nothing _except _sleep since the accident.

God, she's pathetic.

Under the numbness, an all-too familiar feeling starts to well up: self-loathing. Guilt soon follows, then anxiety, and by the time the sun crests the trees, Emma's sunk into a familiar blanket of negativity. She's dimly aware of the fact that she hasn't felt this low since leaving Neal, but caring about that is beyond her abilities right now.

At some point, she considers the idea of actually getting up and going to work, but just thinking of the effort it's going to take to get out of bed and get ready and actually _leave_ \- yeah, no. Bed it is. Bed is good. Bed is safe.

She's startled from a doze when there's heavy footsteps on the stairs. "Emma?"

It takes her a moment to place the voice, deep and thick English accent - "Will?" she croaks, rolling over.

"Yeah, it's - bloody hell, you look like arse," he states as she rolls over.

She bites back an insult. He has no right commenting on her appearance right now, barging on up here like this. She glares blearily at him instead. "Why are you in my room, Will? How did you even get in the _house_?"

"It's Killian, lass, he woke up this morning."

Emma's heart - her withered, gnarled heart that's sat cold in her chest for the last thirty-six hours - springs to life and into her throat. She wants to throw up, throw Will out, curl up under her blankets and not face any of this. She can't see him like that again, bandaged and bruised and _broken_, knowing she's the reason he's like that. When she doesn't respond, he tells her, "He's asking for ya."

"How do you know any of this?" Emma asks, ignoring the way her heart is racing or the way her arms are tingling from adrenaline. She props herself up on her elbow "You aren't family or emergency contact or -"

"Lewis an' me, we been trading off sitting up there, bothering everyone and their mums about him. We're his employees, he's got no family. They figured _someone_ cared enough to find out what's going on with him," Will says. "We aren't sittin' with him up in that room all the time 'cos of visitin' hours, but someone's always waiting around just in case."

That stings. It stings and Emma knows Will's doing it on purpose because he's been doing this since they were teenagers - when she was just beginning to hang around the Horn after she started going out with Neal and Will was still one of the new guys. Will's way of making friends had been to annoy a person until they were close to shoving him into the pond, then doing an about-face and acting like they were the best of friends. Emma _had_ actually pushed him into the pond one afternoon, fed up with him teasing her about - something, she can't even remember what he'd done to annoy her that day. He might not be able to read her like David or Killian could, but he certainly knew what buttons to push to set her off. "I know what you're doing, Scarlet, and it's not going to work," she says, scowling down at her blankets to mask her hurt.

"Come off it, Emma," Will snaps.

She looks up at him, startled. While he has no problem mouthing off to anyone else, he's never actually snapped at her before. In the early light, she can just make out the shadows under his eyes, the pale hue of his skin under his tan, the drawn look about his face. He's exhausted too, but from working and staying vigilant, keeping everything he could under control while the rest of the world went to hell.

While Emma curled up under her covers and hid from everything.

"I can't," she whispers finally, her eyes dropping back down to her blankets.

"Bollocks," Will retorts. "'S'easy enough, get your bum outta the bed, clean up and go down to see him in hospital."

"No," Emma says, a little more firmly. "I can't see him like that, he…" She drifts off, unable to articulate just how fragile she feels, how afraid she is to be near him in case something worse happens.

"Emma." Her eyes meet his - in all of the years she's known Will, he's never looked at her as seriously as he is now. "He's been out of it for almost two days. He's hurt and the only things he's asked about since he came to was Henry and _you._"

She looks down again. "He shouldn't," she mutters under her breath.

_Her fault, her fault, her fault._

Will hears her anyway. "Emma, you're his girl. Of course he's gonna be asking after you."

The first response, the gut response - _I'm not his anything._ \- dies on her tongue as the memory of the last time she'd made such a statement resurges.

She's an awful person.

"Okay," she says softly, shoulders slumping forward.

Will waits downstairs while she makes herself take a shower, braids up her hair, and gets dressed. She has no idea if anyone else is even home to keep Will entertained, but in her experience it doesn't take much to keep him occupied - he'll find something. Being clean makes her feel only marginally better, but at least lack of sweat and hair-grease and smelling nicer is a start. It's still a struggle to force herself to get downstairs and out the door - Will drives her to the hospital in his truck, but she saw on their way out that someone had brought her Bug back to the Point.

Emma feels nauseous the moment they get to the hospital. "I can't do this," she whispers faintly, gripping the door handle so tightly that her knuckles have gone white.

"Emma, all the rubbish you've gone through in your life says you can. Now get out of my bleedin' lorry," Will retorts, his patience with her apparently gone for the day.

With him to push and prod her along the way, it's not very long before she finds herself standing outside of Killian's room. He's on a regular floor - not the ICU or some other god-awful thing that might make her break out into hives - and that knowledge helps a little. Will goes in ahead of her while she tries to calm her shaking limbs and steady her nerves. She takes several deep breaths to try and calm down, rein in her urges to flee or have another breakdown. _Something_.

There's this moment in racing, just before the bell goes off and the gates fly open, when it's like the whole world is holding its breath - the air practically vibrates with anticipation for the race to start. The front gates are closed, the final filly or colt is loaded into the chute, the last gates are locked, everyone's ready and waiting for the starting bell. Emma's watched enough gate-training - and enough real races - to know that appearances aren't always what they seem. The moment everyone else is waiting for it to start is the moment when every horse in the starting gate gets restless. Each one is shifting in some way, anxiously fidgeting - heads tossed, hooves pawing at the dirt; some of them lose control and rear up, which usually results in a scratch from the card and the whole process is started over again. But what Emma always notices is their muscles: tense and bunched in preparation, waiting for the starting bell; waiting for the front gates to fly open so they can leap out, chasing the taste of victory and soothing the burning need to run that's been bred into their very bones.

Outside of Killian's door, Emma finally understands what it must feel like to be penned up in the gate, waiting for someone to release her so she can run, run, _run_.

She forces herself to move, to breathe, to enter Killian's room instead of turning on her heel and going back the way she came.

When she sees him, she wishes she'd listened to her gut.

Killian's asleep, but he looks even worse than he had in the emergency room. His cheeks are puffy, like he's got the mumps or his wisdom teeth taken out. There's a cut with butterfly stitches on his cheek, well below the scar he's already got and about to be covered in beard-scruff anyway. The shadows under his eyes are as horribly dark as they were on Thursday, and even in sleep he's grimacing slightly. There's a mottled blue-black and red bruise spreading out under his beard. "He's so…" Emma puffs out her cheeks a little. "What did they do to him?"

"S'all stuffing, cotton and what. Wired his jaw shut to heal, they did, said it would take a few weeks," Will explains quietly.

"What would take a few weeks?"

"Fractured jaw. Forget what kind they said it was."

God, she really can't do this.

"Here," Will says, dragging a chair over. "You sit here with 'im and I'll find the doctor and he can explain all this better than me."

Emma desperately doesn't want to be left alone, but Will's gone before she can even think to say anything. She sinks into the chair, wishing it were on the other side of the bed so she didn't have to look at the bandages or the bruising. Her hands are even shakier than they were on Thursday night - she doesn't have the welfare of Leo or Roland to keep her sane, only her own willpower.

She doesn't like this. She really doesn't like this.

Part of her thinks she should take Killian's hand. That's what visitors did, right? Showed physical comfort even to someone who might not be aware of it? But there's a larger part of her - the part that's been ruling the roost for several days now - that is terrified to even be sitting this close to him, let alone touching him. She's afraid that the slightest thing might make him worse.

_Her fault, her fault, her fault._

Emma jiggles her leg with increasing anxiety and impatience as she waits for Will to come back. She fights the ever-increasing urge to scratch at her wrist, but it hurts to think of the reproachful look that Killian would give her if he saw. That keeps most of her fidgets away from her tattoo, but occasionally she'd run a nail along the forget-me-not design.

Just as she starts to think Will's gone and gotten himself lost, there's a soft noise from the bed. Emma starts, her blood running cold as she realizes Killian's waking up. She swallows hard when his eyes open, blearily looking around. His eyebrows come together in confusion, but what makes Emma's pulse accelerate is the way his whole face softens when he finally sees her. His lips move and there's a muffled noise that might have been a _Swan_, but she shushes him instead. "Shhh, don't try to talk. Just… don't hurt - don't hurt yourself anymore," she says softly.

He turns his hand over on the bed, beckoning ever so slightly for her with a twitch of his fingers. Emma hesitates for a moment before standing and moving closer to the bed, slipping her hand into his. He brings it to his lips, gently caressing her knuckles with a kiss. Her arm seizes up like she's been burned, but she tries not to jerk away.

Now his thumb is brushing soothing strokes over her hand and Emma's face feels warm at the adoring, relieved look on his face. After a moment, Killian raises an inquiring eyebrow, his eyes flicking down her body and back to her face again. She manages a weak smile. "I'm fine, not even a scratch." The look he gives her is reproachful, the other eyebrow ticking upwards in disbelief. "Really, Killian, I'm good," Emma says.

He shakes his head, and with his free hand reaches for the table-tray that's off to the side. There's a pad of paper on it and a pen. Her cheeks burn when she sees her name written in his flowery script, underlined several times. Henry's name is also there; she wonders if he knows how Henry is while trying to ignore the pinch of guilt at the thought. Killian releases her hand so he can write - she tries to be very nonchalant as she tucks both of her hands into her pockets.

_You look exhausted_, he writes.

"Something like that," she mumbles, hoping he's aware enough to pick up on just how much she doesn't want to talk about this, about herself or - or anything really. Killian exhales heavily through his nose. Emma looks at the floor, hating herself for feeling like this, for being so goddamn damaged that she can't even be a supportive person for -

She looks up when he taps his pen on the table. He's written, _How's Henry?_ on the pad.

"I don't know," Emma says honestly. "I - my phone's gone. Dropped it in the stall, Bluff's probably smashed it to pieces by now."

He frowns, peering at her with concern and a bit of incredulity before writing furiously: _Swan, what's going on? This isn't like you. If anyone were to know something about Henry, it would be you._

Emma actually takes a step back from the bed, feeling like she's been slapped. He's right - she's made no effort to see if Henry was okay after Regina took over, and the whole reason Killian is even in the hospital was because she'd been too stupid to think. She'd needed to get to Henry, had to see if he was alright, and Killian paid the price for her idiocy. And then she'd made no effort to see if it was worth it, to talk to her family and see if they knew anything, to see if Leo was coping alright after all of this. She'd buried herself under a mountain of blankets in her bedroom and refused to talk to _anyone,_ choosing to wallow in self-pity and guilt and self-loathing - God, she really was an awful person -

Killian's making distressed noises, reaching for her. He manages to catch hold of her wrist, tugging her towards him. He winces a little as he lifts his arm so he can cup her cheek, brushing away her tears with his thumb - Emma hadn't even realized that she'd begun to cry, didn't know she still had enough emotion left in her to do so. She hurriedly wipes her face, blinking rapidly to try and make it stop. "Don't fuss about me," she mutters, sniffling a little. "You're the one in the freaking hospital, worry about yourself."

He shakes his head, going for the notepad again just as Will finally comes back with the doctor. Emma takes advantage of the confusion of their arrival to step back from the bed again, this time well out of Killian's reach. The doctor introduces himself as Dr. Mathis, smiling in a way that Emma's not fond of as they shake hands. "Mr. Jones was very anxious about your welfare this morning, Miss Swan. He caused quite a ruckus before we were able to find Mr. Scarlet and send the request along."

Emma shifts her weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with literally everything in this situation. "Yeah…" she mumbles, looking back down at the floor.

She can feel Mathis looking at her for another moment before he starts explaining Killian's injuries. Emma's stomach rolls the longer the list goes on: comminuted fracture ("It looks kind of like a spider-web," Mathis explains) in the body of the jaw, which is why they'd had to wire it shut for several weeks to let it heal. Obviously, there's the bruising and cuts along his jaw and those would take a week or two to heal completely as well, but there's a larger, even more colorful bruise on Killian's shoulder from where he'd taken the brunt of the hoof before it skimmed into his jaw; nothing in the shoulder is broken or dislocated, miraculously enough. Mathis explains that Killian also has a concussion; mentally, Emma thinks it must be from when his head had been slammed against the wall of the stall and he'd been knocked out.

The list of instructions for his care is almost as long; Killian makes a face when the liquid diet is explained. "The shoulder will be painful for a while, but it's better than a break. He'll need quiet, darkened rooms, and rest while the concussion heals, even minor concussions aren't fun. Irritability and nausea are the worst effects of it, and I wouldn't wish nausea with a wired jaw on my worst enemy," Mathis says, attempting to joke with them.

Emma decides she doesn't like the doctor much. "Irritable? Him? Never woulda pegged him for that," Will says, laughing.

Killian flips him off, then picks up his pen and writes, _When can I go home?_

Mathis regards him for a moment, then says, "Well, we'd like to keep you for observation a little longer, to make sure the wiring is set well and that there are no late onset concussion complications, but I don't see why you couldn't leave on Monday."

Killian sighs a moment, then writes a note directed at Will. _Horses are fine?_

Will looks heavenward for a moment as if to ask for strength. "Yes, none of us lads have ever been left alone with a stable of beasts before, the whole thing's burnt to the bloody ground," he grumbles. At Killian's glare, he adds, "The horses are fine, mate. Smee's got things well in hand while Lewis an' I babysit you."

Another note, _And my cats?_

"Yessir, we've kept the horses alive and well for nigh-on two days without you and decided, well that's it then, let's neglect the master's furballs." Will steps out of reach of the swing Killian aims at him, laughing. "Of course your bloody cats are fine, git."

As Killian starts to write a novel of a response to Will's sarcasm and Mathis delivers a lecture on bedside manner - which Emma finds a bit ironic - she sneaks a look at the clock. Though she doesn't feel up to handling the thousands of questions Ruby will have for her, or the sympathetic looks Elsa will give her when she thinks Emma isn't looking, it's a perfect time for her to make an excuse and get the hell out of here. "Hey, uh, I should - I need to get going," she says, edging towards the door. "Work today and… yeah."

Will sobers instantly. "I'll take you to the track, lass."

She holds up her hand. "No," she says, perhaps a little more forcefully than she should have. She continues a bit more gently, "No, it's fine. I'll give David a call and meet him somewhere between." Will starts to protest again, but Emma shakes her head. "Will, it's okay. Just do what you need to do here."

Killian raps on the table hard to get her attention; she can't help but jump a little at the noise, flinching at the expression on his face. He's frowning at her in the way he does when he knows she's hiding something, but there's a bit of apology there for frightening her as well. The message on the notepad he's holding up simply asks, _See you tonight?_

Her skin itches like crazy and she can't help scratching at the inside of her wrist. His face falls slightly even before she can answer and holy shit, she's the worst person. "I was… I was going to go check on Henry after. And Leo's kind of shaken up still so I thought…" She drifts off, unable to even come up with the end of her lame excuses to avoid coming back to this godforsaken place again. But even so, it hurts when he flaps his hand at her in a dismissive way.

Emma stalks down the hall, trying very hard _not_ to run, but she's walking so quickly that she might as well break into a sprint at this point. Once she's outside and off the campus property, she stops and thinks about what she should do next. She can't call anyone and even if she was going to the track it's too far to walk. Emma huffs, just wanting to be at home, in bed, blissfully unaware of what's going on outside…

She almost laughs at that. The last two days have been anything but blissful. But even knowing Killian's finally awake and will eventually be fine, she still feels that gnawing pit of despair because it's still her fault he's in there. He could have _died_ and she -

Emma shivers violently, even if it's still fairly warm for late September. She needs to leave, needs to move and get all of this out of her head - even if her brisk steps on the pavement provide a cadence for the words repeating again and again in her mind:

_My fault, my fault, my fault_.

-/-

Killian slumps back on the pillows the moment Emma leaves the room. Something's truly bothering her and it's distressing that she won't divulge what or why. She's more skittish than a newborn filly. Understandably, she's probably quite upset over what has happened, but it worries him that she's so jumpy around him - and _lying_ about calling someone? She may as well have shouted in his ear that she wanted to get the hell out of here.

It also hurts a bit that she didn't return his affectionate gesture or try to kiss him.

'_She probably thinks that you're too injured to be amorous_,' Liam tells him.

_So the beast didn't knock you out of my head_, Killian retorts. _And Emma should know better by now._

'_Idiot brother._'

Killian scoffs, realizing too late that Will and Dr. Mathis are still in the room. _In for a penny, in for a pound,_ Killian thinks, then makes an effort to actually listen to and answer the doctor's instructions and questions.

_This whole notepad business is going to get very old, very quickly_, he thinks as he writes out instructions for Will. Mathis says Killian will be able to speak without much pain in a few days, but he'll have to go slow and careful about it or else he'll ruin the whole thing. Bloody Will Scarlet nearly laughs himself sick at the notion that Killian Jones would need to speak slowly and clearly to _anyone_, let alone until his jaw was healed. And Killian probably would have taken the piss at himself too, if his pain medicine weren't wearing off at the moment.

Killian sends Will off with the list for things to do at the Horn for the next day or so, and he's left alone in peace after that. He doesn't want the television on, nor can he try to lure anyone in to talk, so he's stuck with his own thoughts for the time being.

When he'd woken up this morning, everyone had asked him several times if he remembered the accident at all. _Fragments_, he'd claimed. He doesn't remember getting hurt, just what happened up until then: being unable to stop Bluff from kicking Henry, the way Henry had crumpled to the floor. Emma's face when she realized Henry was hurt. The fleeting look of terror on her face when she realized she'd put herself in harm's way.

He never wants to see that look on her face again. Pale, wide-eyed, not even a moment to cry out before she'd tried to cover Henry with her own body as a shield from Bluff's rampage.

He can remember feeling cold, his own fear taking over as he realized what was about to happen. He remembers the need to protect her completely overwhelming him, his body moving almost without his say-so to push her down further out of harm's way. Everything after that is a blank until he'd awakened this morning.

Yes, he hurt. Moving his arm is nigh-impossible with the bruising and swelling, and constantly feeling like one's teeth are about to rattle out of one's head isn't an experience he'd thrust on anyone. His head aches something fierce and if he moves too quickly he feels like he's going to hurl everywhere. It's going to be a long time before Killian Jones feels like himself again, but it's worth it. He'd never have forgiven himself if Emma were the one laying in this bed - or worse. He's seen plenty of men killed by a spooked horse in his day. He's well aware of how lucky he is to have come away so relatively unscathed.

_She'll come around_, Killian thinks, settling in for a bit of a doze. _I don't want to imagine what this must have been like for her. Worried herself sick, I'll bet._

Emma's just replaced some of her armor, that's all. He's helped her remove it before, and he can certainly do it again.

-/-

Emma tries going to see Henry on Saturday - she's already stuck in town, might as well - but Regina meets her firmly at the door. Henry needs rest, she claims, and they need "time to discuss things as a family". She has the grace to look slightly apologetic about it, and she asks Robin to drive Emma back to the Point, but Emma still isn't allowed to visit Henry.

Two days later, Emma still isn't sure what "discussing things as a family" completely entails. Did Regina believe her? Had Henry fessed up, or did something happened at the hospital to tip someone off? She'd tried asking Robin when he'd driven her home, but he was mum on the subject, too. It only further soured her mood, dragging her further back into that comfortable angst-blanket. Luckily, everyone else was at the track that day, so Emma could grab a stash of food and burrow away up in her bedroom for the remainder of the weekend in peace.

But on Monday, Mary Margaret herself stomps up the attic stairs. "We are not making any further excuses for you, Emma. You are getting out of that bed and you are going to go to work. You're acting like someone died, for God's sake!"

Emma grumbles, throwing her blankets over her head. "Why aren't you at school?" she asks dully.

"I took the morning off," Mary Margaret snaps. Emma starts to respond, but her sister-in-law continues. "Not for you, believe it or not. I have an OB appointment this morning. Nagging you to get your shit together is just a bonus."

Despite the surprisingly colorful addition to Mary Margaret's normally vanilla vocabulary, Emma doesn't move from under her blanket nest. In all honesty, she's been dreading the thought of going back to the track more than she'd dreaded the thought of someone taking her back to the hospital yesterday. She's not looking forward to being reminded of Killian at every turn and the constant nagging thought that it's her fault that he isn't there. Not to mention the interrogation Ruby will put her through, watching Elsa's sympathetic expression transform into one of disgust when she realizes that it's Emma's fault…

She can't do this.

Mary Margaret, however, is having none of it. "Emma Swan, I wrangle three dozen horses, twenty-five preteens, a husband, and a six-year old - _while pregnant_ \- all day long. So don't you dare think I can't get your scrawny hide into the shower and out the door."

And she's right, much to Emma's chagrin. She doesn't demean Emma further by dunking her in the tub and scrubbing behind Emma's ears herself, but in the fifteen minutes Emma doesn't drown herself she's checked on three times and told that she's forbidden from going back upstairs. Emma suspects the sheets have been stripped, all of the windows thrown open, and her bedding is airing out.

Instead, she's bundled into the master bedroom, where Mary Margaret has got an outfit from Emma's closet laid out on the bed for her. She dries and braids Emma's hair, much more gently than the way she'd tossed Emma into the shower, and leaves her to get dressed. "I'm driving you to work and David is bringing you home," Mary Margaret warns before leaving the room.

Damn her.

Emma's trembling nerves carry her into the control room half an hour later. Thankfully no one else has arrived yet - Mary Margaret was good about sticking to Emma's usual schedule. Emma takes the time alone to go over what she'd missed on Friday and Saturday, as well as mentally fortifying herself for Ruby's arrival.

However, the first person to arrive to work this morning is not Ruby, it's Jefferson. "Oh, uh," he stumbles over his words a little, seemingly surprised to see her. "You're back."

Emma's pretty sure that's the most words Jefferson has ever spoken to her at one time, and that's including the 'uh'. "Yeah," she replies. "Mostly against my will."

Is it her imagination, or is there a very faint smile on his face? "I know the feeling," he says quietly. He starts to head into the camera room, but then he pauses at the door. "Hey, uh… I heard. About what happened, I mean." He's not talking directly to her, looking more at the floor with the brim of his cap pulled low over his face as usual. Emma watches him with mild curiosity. "Henry's a good kid, I'm sorry to hear he got hurt. Gracie, she's - she's pretty upset about it."

Emma doesn't know just how much Jefferson knows - she doesn't know how much _Regina_ knows, for God's sake, because Regina stonewalled her this weekend - but she wonders if Henry told Grace. And how much Henry might have told Grace. (And how much of Grace's history does Henry know?) Emma doesn't want to push the issue, though, doesn't want to bring up anything that Jefferson might not want to discuss or have widely known. "I talked to his mom on Saturday," she says instead. "He's gonna be okay, he just… He's got a tough fight ahead of him."

Jefferson nods slightly, still not looking directly at her. "Yeah. I know how that goes." Emma's brow furrows slightly. Is he saying he knows about Henry's problem and he relates? Or is he just making vague assertions that he's been through tough times and gets it? "Just… Let him know I'm betting on him, alright? And Gracie too."

For the first time in days, there's a spot of warmth in her heart: affection for this man she barely knows despite working with him five days a week, putting himself out there when he doesn't have to. "I will, Jefferson," Emma says. "Thank you."

He nods gruffly before opening the door and disappearing into the camera room.

When Ruby does show up, Emma braces herself for a rapid-fire of increasingly personal questions as Victor just nods a greeting and heads into the other room. Instead, though, Ruby throws her off her guard simply by asking, "Hey, how are you holding up?"

Emma side-eyes her warily. "Fine. Why?"

Ruby rolls her eyes, drumming her blood red nails on the desk impatiently. "Yeah, because ignoring your phone for three days and missing work for two when you're an otherwise known workaholic is the very definition of _fine_."

"Phone's out of commission," Emma mumbles, turning away and taking a sip of coffee. She makes a face. The coffee itself is fine, but that wave of affection she'd felt for Jefferson vanishes quickly when she remembers that morning coffee is her _thing_ with Killian. She'd prepared this cup herself, no surprises waiting for her - no surprise additions of nutmeg or cinnamon or whatever the hell he'd come up with that morning.

God dammit, even coffee is ruined for her.

A clicking sound in the hallway causes her to flick her eyes up to the door, just before Elsa comes in with her cane. Emma eyes it warily, wondering if Elsa's going to be in as foul a mood as she is today - with no phone, there's no way Anna could have given her a head's up about it. Elsa gasps when she spots Emma. "Oh my _God,_ you're here, are you okay? Is Killian okay? Henry?" she asks, hurrying over to sit down.

Emma's gaze flicks down to the cane Elsa's putting under her side of the desk. "You weren't using _that _for a few weeks and you're wasting your time worrying about me?" she asks irritably.

Elsa flaps her hand. "I have a neurological disorder, this is normal. You vanishing off the face of the Earth for three days is _not_ normal, of course I'm worried about you."

Emma hunches over slightly, the gnawing guilt and discomfort in the pit of her stomach growing as an awful thought hits her. Elsa had been fine last week. What if Emma dropping out of life like that had caused something to happen? Because Elsa had been worried about Emma or trying to get ahold of her? Oh God, this is her fault too; Elsa hates using her cane, there's no way she'd be so flippant about it unless she was trying to downplay it for Emma's benefit.

She's the only person in this whole mess that's come out in one piece and that's the _entire problem_. "I really don't want to talk about it," she mumbles.

"Emma, we're -" Ruby starts, but Elsa makes a shushing noise.

"Of course you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," Elsa says smoothly. Out of the corner of her eye, Emma can see the piercing glare Elsa is giving Ruby. "But if you ever do, we're here to listen, okay?"

Emma nods, afraid that if she speaks now she'll lose the fragile grip she's got on her emotions. She really hates Mary Margaret right now for making her do this.

As the day goes on, her coworkers have picked up on the fact that Emma doesn't want to talk about _anything_. Elsa and Ruby trade gossip between races, but don't try to lure Emma into the discussion - they're not ignoring her; Emma knows that if she chimed in with something she'd be welcomed into the discussion. They're just not forcing her to do something she doesn't want to do, and Emma appreciates the respect of boundaries.

She finds David waiting for her in the lobby when she goes to clock out. "Mary Margaret thought you might have waited until she was gone and then left," he admits to Emma's inquiring eyebrow quirk.

Emma scowls, punching her time card. "How many of my high school antics have you told her, anyway?"

He's got enough grace to look sheepish. "Can you blame us?" he asks as they leave and head down to the barns. She shrugs in response.

They're quiet as they load two of their horses into the trailer for home. There's a third gelding being boarded for the week and Emma waits while David fusses for a bit over him. She knows David's playing his waiting game, but she's pretty sure this isn't one he's going to win. While she knows he'd understand and sympathize if she brought up her fears and concerns about the whole thing in relation to what happened to James, she also doesn't want to be responsible for bringing up awful memories. In all likelihood, those awful memories probably already came back, but Emma doesn't want to prolong the process for him.

The silence on the ride home is almost deafening - almost enough to make her crack, but she really just doesn't want to break David's heart again.

She's the reason he doesn't have a father anymore - she doesn't want to remind him of that.

Some days she wonders how Ruth had never gotten rid of her after James had died, how David could still stand to look at her.

There's a surprise waiting on the porch when they get back to the Point: Mary Margaret's fussing over Killian. Emma's arms start to tremble at the sight of him - his eyes are covered in dark sunglasses against the light, the bruise under his scruff visible even from where David parks the truck. When he cuts the engine and she makes no moves to get out of the cab, David sighs. "Help me unload the horses if you're going to keep avoiding him," he tells her. "But you're going to have to talk to him _eventually. Especially_ if he came all this way when he's supposed to be resting."

"He's such an idiot," Emma whispers faintly.

"_Your _idiot," David counters. Emma closes her eyes and lets her head fall back against the headrest.

There's a chill that's spread through her entire body as she gets the horses unloaded. Her fingers are numb while she unwinds leg bandages, clumsy with the water buckets when she refills the ones in the stalls. She's shaking like a leaf and it only gets worse when she thinks about who's waiting for her on the porch.

Eventually, there's nothing left she can do to put off going back up to the house. She wipes her sweaty palms on the back of her jeans and trudges slowly up the short hill on legs that feel more like Jell-o than muscle and bone. Killian's sitting on one of the chairs, the bruise looking much worse the closer she gets - green has started to appear along the edges, still blue-black near the middle, and purpling red in between. She can't tell if the stubborn set of his mouth is from the way they've wired his jaw shut, or if he's upset about something. She pauses at the top of the steps when she feels his eyes on her. "Hey," she says softly, her voice as shaky as the rest of her.

He gestures as if to invite her to sit and she settles on the porch swing. He smirks a little and grabs his pen and notepad from the little table between them. _Makes me nauseous_, he writes.

"Sorry," Emma whispers, looking down at her hands.

She can hear the scrape of the pen against paper and looks up when he taps the pad with the pen. _Stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault, love._

She almost wants to smile at the way he'd put the endearment at the end, but her eyes burn because it's _completely_ her fault. She closes her eyes and shakes her head a little. There's a slight scrape of wood-on-wood and then he's taken her hand and is pulling her up to hold her. Anything she might have wanted to say freezes in her throat, like the rest of her body tenses up the moment his arms wrap around her body - she chokes out a sob in an attempt to free them, this little bit of contact too much for her to handle because God he's _alive_ and _warm_ and feels _wonderful,_ but it _hurts_ at the same time. She's a danger to him and he doesn't see it. "Killian, please," she whispers, wanting nothing more than to get away before he gets hurt again but wanting to stay here in his embrace forever.

He pulls back slightly, pushing his sunglasses up on top of his head to look at her properly. He's looking at her with frustration and concern, one hand reaching up to wipe away the few tears she's cried. She closes her eyes, trying desperately not to pull away. She hears him sigh in frustration and let her go, the absence of his body heat leaving her colder than before. Emma doesn't move, rooted in place. She hears him writing again, opening her eyes when he taps the pen insistently on the paper. _Emma, tell me what's wrong. Talk to me, __please__._

"I can't," she whispers. It feels childish to refuse him, but she can't figure out how to articulate how she's feeling.

_Bullshit_, he writes. _I'm __worried_ _about you, darling, you're behaving oddly._

Anger, hot and white, thaws her frozen body enough to finally form words. "That's the whole _problem_!" she cries. "Everyone is worried about _me_ and I'm the only one who's _fine_ in all of this! Regina won't let me see Henry - she _says_ he's okay, but she's the one who's been denying that he's slowly killing himself for months! Elsa had another accident and it's my fault because I didn't show up for work. And you -" Her voice breaks and she falls silent, her lips trembling as she tries to rein in her emotions again. She takes a shuddering breath "You got hurt because of me."

Killian's shaking his head, flipping through the notebook for a message already written down. _Stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault, love._

"Of course it's my fault," she whispers, swiping at her eyes.

He sighs in exasperation, taking her hand and placing it firmly on his chest - over his heart. Gently, he grips her chin and makes her look up at him. He points to himself, then at her, and then covers her hand with his own, staring at her so intently that Emma wants to break down again. She's bewildered for a moment, trying to figure out his meaning - then her eyes widen and she freezes. "Killian -"

He's shaking his head, his eyes - so blue, painfully blue - never leaving hers, searching them for answers she can't give him. She knows what he's asking for and it's the one thing she's unable to give him. She's had a taste: she knows what it feels like, knows what it can do to her. She's been denying it for weeks because she knows what will happen if she gives in. And she - she can't. She can't give that to him. His hand over hers tightens - a silent plea to stop and think before she does anything too rash, because he _knows_ her and can feel as well as she does that she's about to bolt.

But she can't.

"I can't do this," she says again, what feels like the millionth time in the last four days. He's sick and he doesn't know what he's doing. "I - I need to think, I need -"

She needs to leave. Now.

Emma pulls away from him, practically wrenching her hand out of his as she desperately tries to ignore the heartbreak written plainly over his face as she walks away from him. She doesn't run, she just walks very quickly into the house. She doesn't let the screen door slam behind her, she just doesn't care if she flings it open and keeps walking. She doesn't hear what Mary Margaret's saying, she just goes upstairs and locks herself in the attic again.

She remakes her bed with shaking hands, keeping it together just long enough to be able to collapse into clean sheets and blankets. If she thinks about what the look on his face means, she'll hesitate. She'll give him a chance to burrow deeper into her life, and the next time he gets hurt - the next time will destroy her, irrevocably and completely.

She can't love Killian. Loving Killian means losing herself and she promised herself a long time ago that she'd never lose herself to another man ever again.

For the first time since Neal, Emma cries over a man. She doesn't know if she's crying for the lost potential or just to flush all of her feelings out of her system. She just clutches her pillow tight, hating herself for wishing she was holding Killian instead, his hands gentle as he soothed her.

That possibility is gone. And it's entirely her fault.

* * *

**We're far from the end of the story! ~Character development**~


	18. September 29 - October 4

**Sorry this one took so long. Blessings on my beta idoltina's cow for putting up with me in all of this. Important author's note at the bottom!**

**Warnings: substance abuse (alcohol and prescription drugs), references to childhood trauma, death mention, mention of eating disorders**

* * *

He can feel his heart shatter more with every step that takes her away from him. Killian turns, half-heartedly reaching for Emma as she flees, one thought repeating itself desperately in his mind.

_She's leaving_.

He's dimly aware of the sound of the door slamming shut behind her - shutting her away, shutting him out of her life. He wants to run after her, fight for her to just _listen_ to him, but _how_? His heartbeat thunders in his ears, thumping to the cadence that makes up the list of those he's already lost: _Da, Mam, Liam, Milah_. He can't add Emma to that list, he _can't_. He can't speak and writing will take too long, _how_ can he make her listen?

_I can't_, he realizes as his heart sinks lower in his chest. _I can't push her, not when she's scared and so damn stubborn. She'll run for sure and I'll never catch her._

His throat's dry as bone for all he hasn't said a word in days and God in heaven he needs a drink.

He can't drink, not the kind he needs.

He's lost so many people already. His parents, Liam, Milah. He just _can't _lose Emma too.

_The Bradys have been good to him this summer, letting him tag after their oldest lad while he takes care of shedrow business. Mr. Brady's the master of the farm, too busy to take the curious lad from down the way under his wing, but Sean is fair game. Mrs. Brady welcomes him to afternoon tea every day - "Well-fed lads are happy lads, and good workers too, remember that Killian," she'd said more than once, as if he'd have his own workers to feed someday - and his mother makes sure to send him down to the house every Sunday with homemade goods as a thank you for taking care of him._

_He's as happy as any ten-year old has a right to be._

_Until the day the garda pulls up to the farm and Mr. Brady calls him in from helping Sean mend a fence. Liam's there too, climbing out of the patrol car slowly, looking as if he's seen a ghost. The pitying look on the garda's face is enough to set Killian on edge - did Da come home drinking again? Was Mam alright?_

_The only thing Liam can do is hug him. "They're gone."_

He clenches his hand into a fist when he realizes it's shaking, desperate for something to grasp onto, to steady him, anchor him to the present, distract him from the longing ache that's taken up residence in his entire body. His family is long dead, nothing can change that fact now. A hand on his shoulder brings him back to awareness. "Killian?"

His heart races until he realizes the feminine voice belongs to Mary Margaret, not Emma. Mary Margaret sits him down again, fussing over him and checking his forehead and pulse with cool hands. Her touch is gentle, soothing; his heartbeat slows again, his breath steadying. Seemingly satisfied, Mary Margaret slides the sunglasses down over his eyes again, and the ache behind his eyes eases. "What happened?" she asks.

Killian shrugs, despondent. He doesn't know if he can bear to write _I tried to tell her that I love her and she rejected me, _doesn't know if he can bear the pain of admitting that he'd go to any length to keep Emma safe and happy and she doesn't _want_ him. He _knows_ Mary Margaret. She'll have questions that he doesn't have answers for. It's easier to claim ignorance, wrap it around himself like armor and save himself further injury. "I don't understand it," she says after a few moments. "You and Henry are fine. Well, not _fine_ exactly, but these are fixable things. You'll both heal. Was it that bad to see, really?"

He shrugs again, this time tapping his head after. Seeing Henry get kicked hadn't been pleasant, but Killian's seen worse. The shock of it mostly came from the boy's age and unusually slow reflexes. As for his own injuries, he'd been lucky enough to be unconscious for the worst of it. Mary Margaret sighs. "David's been a little withdrawn, too. I just… I wish someone would _talk _to me about this." Killian snorts. He knows the feeling. She continues, "I keep wondering if this goes back to David's father."

He glances at her, eyebrow raised with mild curiosity. What would _that_ have to do with anything? Mary Margaret flaps her hand impatiently. "I don't know. David's never really talked to me about his father. I know he died very suddenly when they were seventeen, some kind of accident, and they all took it hard. But he's never given any details and I've never pushed the issue. Emma too. Even Ruth - when she was still alive she didn't like mentioning it."

Killian shakes his head, memories of losing his own parents too close to the surface to make this conversation comfortable. While he and Liam had been close as young children, their parents' deaths had made them almost inseparable until Liam's own death. Perhaps his own experiences are coloring things, causing him to expect that such hardship would bring Emma closer - though it still doesn't explain why she'd not known about Henry. Mary Margaret reaches over and squeezes his hand. "I'll see if David will talk to her. If I can get him to talk to _me_ first." She sighs again, shaking her head sadly. "We'll get through this. One day at a time." He nods, because what else can he do? She pats his hand and gets to her feet. "Let me drive you home."

Killian holds up a hand and then reaches into his pocket. He pulls out Emma's phone, miraculously unscathed - dead battery, but nary a scratch to be found on it. It had been on his desk in his office, likely one of the lads had found it when they'd put Bluff back in his stall. He hands it to Mary Margaret and she smiles, a little wry. "Well thank goodness for small blessings," she says.

The drive back to the Horn is a quiet one. He can feel Mary Margaret's eyes on him almost as often as they're on the road, but he can't bring himself to caution her to watch the road more. The further they drive from the Point, the more he just wants her to turn around and go back, permit him to storm the farmhouse and throw himself at Emma's feet -

He knows she wouldn't have him. That Mary Margaret would save him the humiliation in the first place. They both need time. Emma needs to come to terms with the events of the last few days on her own. He needs to heal.

He needs a drink.

He waves off Mary Margaret's offer to come up to the house with him. It's kind of her, but he wants to be alone in his misery for a while. Once before Killian's thought that he's not nearly drunk enough to handle being dumped by Emma Swan, and he's finding it to be true again now. He can't even find it in himself to be disgusted by the protein shake he has to drink in lieu of a proper dinner; it tastes like sawdust and sits like lead in his stomach, but it's enough to let him take his evening pills. _Maybe_ he takes one more than his prescribed amount of meds, and _maybe_ he spends a long time staring at an unopened bottle of whisky before putting it back on the shelf, but neither thing helps the growing chasm in the place where his heart used to be.

He misses her.

_She doesn't love him_.

The thought has him grabbing the bottle of whisky again, weighing it heavily in his hands. The amber liquid is tempting, something more likely to numb the pain of knowing that _Emma Swan doesn't love him_, that he's not good enough for her, that he's been left behind _again_. She's good at running, she told him that, and here she is demonstrating that for him. _What do I do?_ he wonders desperately, the glass squeezed tight between his fingers as he sinks to the floor against the cabinets. _Tell me what I need to do_.

Liam doesn't answer.

Maybe it never was Liam. Killian scowls, breaking the seal on the cap and unscrewing it. Maybe it never was Liam, because Liam _died_ ten years ago. Liam was _murdered_ in front of him and Killian had been helpless to do anything about it, his arm twisted behind his back and a knife held to his throat. He'd been unable to wrench himself free as Milah flew into a rage, beating their muggers with her purse, screaming like a banshee for the police. His Milah, cut down in front of him for daring to fight back. He'd gotten a slash across his cheek when he'd finally moved, finally risked dislocating his arm to get to her - "Leave the Fenian to mourn his dead," one of the muggers had laughed as they'd walked off with the brothers' wallets and Milah's purse.

The burn from the whisky on all of his still-healing wounds doesn't come close to the miserable rage burning through his veins.

He couldn't stop Liam's death. His fault Milah had died.

He's not good enough for Emma.

The burn from the second swig is too much and not enough at the same time - he pushes through it, needing the burn to bleed into numbness, needing to feel _anything_ other than the stabbing pain in his chest. Finally, his scream of rage - bottled and bound by the trappings keeping him silent - sounds feral even to his own ears as he hurls the half-empty bottle of whisky at the wall. It shatters upon impact and he can't bring himself to care that there's alcohol dripping down the walls and in a puddle on the floor, glass splayed every which way for his cats to step on. He doesn't care that he's taken too much, drank too much, he only cares that he's _feeling too much _and it needs to _stop_. He feels woozy and sick to his stomach, pain ebbing away and leaving tired, blessed numbness in its place. It's all he can do to tuck his legs up, resting his forehead against his knees, folding himself nearly in two as his eyes burn with unshed tears.

_Tell me what I need to do_.

There's no one to answer.

-/-

It makes knocking/kicking on Henry's door that much more difficult, but seeing his tentative smile at the sight of her bearing two mugs of hot cocoa and cinnamon is worth the effort. Emma can see she's interrupted homework time - did he even go to school today? - but he doesn't seem to mind. She sets both mugs down on the nightstand while he stands there a little awkwardly, then she hugs him as hard as she dares. The anxious knot in her chest loosens when he hugs her just as fiercely. "I'm sorry, kid," she whispers, carding her fingers through his hair.

"Me too," he mutters against her shoulder.

She holds him for another minute, hoping everything she wants to say comes across in the hug. She's been trying all day to think about what she should say, what she _needs_ to say, but she's not great with words. It's also the reason why she'd all but fled work earlier when she'd had the chance to apologize to Elsa. She doesn't have the words yet. Emma steps back a little, messing up his hair and smiling at the way he ducks out of her reach, then lets him grab a mug. She sits at the desk while he takes the bed. "Mom didn't give you a hard time about this?" Henry asks, taking a careful sip and getting whipped cream all over his upper lip.

"Your mom's not home, Robin let me in," Emma explains. She hesitates a moment; this is the hard part, letting him know she knows and gauging his reaction. "He said you guys had some family time this weekend?"

Henry makes a face and sets his mug down. He stretches out on the bed, back braced against his headboard, a scowl settling across his face. "Mom and Robin are doing that thing where they're all guilty for having lives and blaming themselves for everything. Mom thinks it's her fault because of something _her_ mom did. Robin feels all guilty because he went camping for two months and let me run all over by myself and get corrupted. And _now_ he's worried that if _I_ went off the deep end like this how _Roland_ is going to be soon… Parents are weird."

Emma exhales quietly in relief. "Well, I hope Robin knows this isn't just something you did in some fit of teen freedom rebellion."

"I think he knows," Henry says, picking his mug up again and cradling it in his hands. "Deep down or whatever. It'd just be better if he stops giving me that look like he's pitying me and he's scared I'll do it again if he glances away. He didn't go to work today, you know? It's like a month into the semester and he cancelled his classes for the next couple of days."

Emma chews on the inside of her lip. She doesn't know Robin all that well, but she does know Henry: he's going to feel guilty about that, and guilt won't help him get better. She sets her nearly-empty mug on the desk and braces herself on her knees. "I'm not gonna say anything you don't already know," she starts, and Henry smiles wryly. "You scared the shit out of everyone. I thought we'd talked and gotten over it, but then you got weird and it worried me because I didn't know what the hell was going on. But your mom and I talked and we decided you were just being a teenager and we let you at it.

"But I've been worried all summer about this, kid. I didn't figure it out until two weeks ago, when -" She breaks off, stumbling over Killian's name and deliberately ignoring the gaping pain in her chest at the thought of him. "I found out about the cigarette. That's a pretty deliberate move, Henry. You want to know why Robin's staying home and giving you those looks? It's because he's terrified if he doesn't keep an eye on you, the next time he comes home you won't be here. And I don't blame him in the least."

Henry picks at some lint on his jeans. Emma lets him digest that; like she'd said, he probably already realizes this, but sometimes it takes someone else saying it to make it stick. "I told you back in June you were a smart kid, Henry. It scares us when we know that you know something's stupid and dangerous and you go and do it anyway," she finishes quietly.

Henry's chewing on his lower lip, still picking at his jeans. Emma sits back and finishes her cocoa while he thinks. Her cards are on the table, it's his turn to decide if he wants to fold or pick up.

"How is Killian?" Henry asks after several minutes. "We never found out after we left the hospital on Friday."

Emma swallows past the sudden tightness in her throat. "He woke up on Saturday. Released yesterday. Broken jaw, concussion, bruises, but he'll recover."

She can't quite meet his eyes as she explains all of this, but she can tell he's giving her that familiar Henry-scrutiny. "Those are awfully short sentences, even for you," he says.

"Henry."

He's undeterred from her warning tone. "Did something happen between you two? They always talk about how concussions make people irritable and behave irrationally. Did you two get into a fight because he's all messed up right now?"

"_Henry_."

"Seriously, Emma, what's -"

"_Henry_," Emma half-shouts, glaring at him. "This is not a topic up for discussion. We're not talking about my issues, we're talking about yours."

He rolls his eyes. "You know, when you do that you're basically telling me something's -"

He stops when she raises her eyebrows, daring him silently to finish. She's not talking about this with her Little Brother. It's inappropriate and opens up a whole lot of things she doesn't want to deal with right now. Not after yesterday, not after finally shoving all of her emotions into a box to be sorted through later, not after failing to even talk to Elsa this morning.

She can't think about Killian because whenever she does it feels like some part of her is missing, like there's a gaping hole where something important should be. She's afraid that if she starts talking about him, that hole is going to split wide open and swallow her.

This is what she gets for letting people in, letting someone get too close. Getting too close means someone gets hurt and she's always a casualty.

"So, what's the plan?" Emma asks, changing the subject. "For you."

He rolls his eyes again, but they spend the next hour or so talking about what Henry's recovery plan is. Emma's relieved to hear that he's quitting the team - he wouldn't be allowed to run with his injury anyway - and that Regina wants to increase his visits to Dr. Hopper again. Emma remembers the way Henry used to gripe about his weekly sessions, but she thinks he needs some kind of routine; her experience with constant instability growing up taught her that much. It was a large part of why their early partnership had helped him adjust and accept his dad's death when he was a kid: they'd hang out on the same day every week for the same amount of time. Now that he's not doing a sport and he's not working at the Horn while he recovers, he needs _something_ stable. "You could join some other thing at school," Emma says. "Mathletes or whatever. Do they even have Mathletes in Storybrooke?"

Henry's eyes are going to fall out of his head if he keeps rolling them, and she tells him as much. He tosses a pillow at her and she laughs. "I'm awful at math," he tells her. "There's no reading club or 'good with horses' club."

Emma slouches in the chair a bit so she can reach, nudging him with her foot. "Yeah, but I still stand by what I said. I know your mom and Robin will agree: you should figure out some other interests besides the barn and _Halo 3_. You've gotten a little lazy about that lately."

"No one plays _Halo 3_ anymore, Emma."

"You're evading, kid. And stop rolling your eyes or I'm gonna make you join the drama club."

He sighs in disgust instead. "_Fine_. I'll think about it," he says. He scoots further away on the bed so she can't reach him and adds, "If you tell me what's going on with you and Killian."

"Henry -"

"Because the last time you were this evasive about someone it was about Neal and everything that happened with you two and how he murdered Graham and -"

Emma holds up her hand, her eyes squeezed shut. Her heart hurts because she promised Henry years ago that she wouldn't lie to him but she's this close to doing it anyway. If anything could make her feel worse it would be bringing up Neal on top of everything else. She hasn't forgotten about that letter, still sitting unopened on her desk from July, taunting her every single day. She tries to think of a way to explain without telling him anything, without lying to him, but she must have left enough of an opening for him to ask quietly, "You broke up with him, didn't you?"

Emma really misses her bed right about now. "Yes," she whispers brokenly. "No. I don't know. It's complicated, Henry."

"And people say teenagers are dramatic," Henry says. "How can you not know?"

There's a spiteful creature rearing its head inside her, demanding she ask him something hurtful in return, cut him as deeply as he's cutting her, but she reins it in - barely. "I want you to keep that in mind when you start dating," she mutters. "It's not as cut and dry as fairytales want you to think it is. It's messy and people get hurt. People fight, people get angry, people lie and pull away and leave you behind… People change the rules on you."

Henry opens his mouth again but there's a knock at the door. Robin pokes his head in. "Dinner's in fifteen, Henry, and your mother will be home any minute now. Emma, you're welcome to stay if you like."

Emma smiles briefly. Their earlier conversation when he'd let her inside still stung a little: he'd explained how he and Regina hadn't realized how their work schedules were taking a toll on their boys and just wanted some time to discuss things 'as a family'. The family part is what stung the most - she knows she's not _really_ Henry's sister, she does. But Robin doesn't know Emma that well, doesn't know how sensitive she can be about families in general. It was a poor choice of words on his part, but her own fault for being so vulnerable in the first place. "Thanks, but I need to be getting home. I have barn chores," she explains, getting to her feet.

She gathers the empty mugs, intending to wash them before she left. "Think about what I said," she tells Henry before following Robin. "About a club or something."

"Yeah, yeah," she hears him mutter.

Downstairs, Roland is carefully setting the table one piece at a time. Emma makes quick work of the mugs, drying them off and sticking them back in the cupboard, and ruffles Roland's hair a bit before going to put her shoes on. She grabs her purse as the front door opens and Regina steps inside, looking a little bit harried, a lot exhausted, and more than a little irritated - kind of like how Emma feels. Their eyes meet for a moment, and Emma starts to say… something.

She doesn't know what to say.

Par for the course today.

Emma drops her gaze to the floor and brushes past Regina quickly, heading to her car. Chores. Home and chores. Familiar things.

Routines help.

* * *

The week passes in an increasingly agitated blur. She finds anger to be a better use of her emotional energy than the listless sadness from the weekend and uses it to fire through her days. She's pissed at herself for being unable to find the right words for Elsa, for Regina, for _anyone_ really; for causing all of this to happen in the first place; for snapping at people who didn't deserve the sharp edge of her temper. It gets her more than a few quizzical looks, but it makes her _feel_ something, makes her burn to _do_ something. Anger keeps her tethered to here and now while she tries to figure out where she needs to go next, what she needs to _do_ next.

Anger is exhausting.

She's in Mary Margaret's barn on Friday evening - mucking and grooming and feeding, good ways to burn through her anger, positive use of negative energy - when David finds her. She nods at him over the back of the mare she's grooming. While she's been raging in her own head all week and snapping at everyone who dares to get too close, she's noticed David's unusual quiet behavior. She's seen the surreptitious glares Mary Margaret throws at both David and Emma, but while she's pretty sure she knows why Mary Margaret is annoyed with her - aside from the obvious, the offending initials are K and J - she has yet to figure out what's going on between her brother and his wife.

David grabs an extra currycomb and joins her. They work in tandem and silence; David picking out the mare's hooves while Emma combs her mane and tail. It's not until he's checking the nails on the horseshoes that David finally says, "I've been thinking a lot about the night Dad died."

Emma freezes, her hands tangled in horse hair. Dread floods her mind, completely extinguishing the agitation that's fueled her work ethic tonight, and all she wants to do is run away from this conversation - but the rational part of her mind, the one that's slowly been sparking back to life since the accident last week (only last week?), tells her to stay and have this conversation.

It's one they probably needed to have almost twelve years ago, but maybe neither of them were ready for it until now.

"Me too," Emma finally says softly, almost to herself.

He doesn't say anything else until they've finished with the mare, and then he takes a seat on the floor outside of the stall, back resting against the wall. Emma sits next to him, her arms loosely wrapped around her knees. She picks at the dirt under her nails while she waits for him to figure out what he's going to say - one corner of her mouth ticks up when she realizes she's the one waiting for him for once. "I was mad at you for a while," David says at length.

She closes her eyes as that sinks in. It's actually kind of a relief to hear that. "You had - _have_ \- every right to be. It's my fault," she tells him.

"What?"

Emma glances at him, her eyes going wide at the incredulous look on his face. David shakes his head. "Emma, no. It's never been your fault, he knew Bluebell didn't like storms, he was drunk - wait, have you been blaming yourself for that all this time?"

She blinks, kind of bewildered at this abrupt left turn they've made in the conversation. "David, I told you. Bluebell got spooked because I screamed. If I hadn't gotten freaked out, James would -"

But he's shaking his head. "No. Bluebell hated storms about as much as you did - remember how you used to camp out in the living room with your headphones on? You'd wrap yourself under that afghan that Mom used to keep on the chair and you'd jump when the thunder was loud enough for you to hear over the music." Emma frowns, thinking back. She'd blocked out a lot of memories from her childhood; this could be one of those things. David continues, "Remember how Dad used to sit with you, because it always seemed to storm around dinnertime and Mom was cooking? He'd have the TV on and talk about whatever it was and you'd sit there with your music and that afghan and scowl hard enough that I thought you'd turn into a gargoyle."

Emma smacks him on the arm a little for that, but the memories are starting to come back to her: a lot of the detailed memories of James were faded and pushed away, too painful after his death - things she hadn't wanted to think about while knowing it was her fault he'd died.

Though apparently it wasn't.

"Mom and I were surprised when you volunteered to go do barn chores that day," David says. "Because we knew it was going to storm and you didn't like being out in that. But Mom thought it was a good step forward for you and didn't say anything about it. Bluebell got spooked because it was storming, Emma, not because you screamed. She was always a little flighty during storm season."

"_Emma, I'm not leaving you by yourself with a flighty mare."_

She'd thought James just wanted some sort of task to work through, something to try and sober up before dinner, avoid Ruth's irritation that he'd been drinking in the afternoon.

James had been trying to protect her. And he'd paid the ultimate price for it.

There's a lump in her throat and tears stinging in her eyes as she leans her head against David's shoulder. He reaches up and cradles her cheek, leaning his head against hers. "Why were you mad at me, then?" Emma asks thickly, sniffling quickly.

"Emma, I was mad because you were the last person Dad talked to before he died. You were the last person to see him alive. You remember what the last thing he said to you was - the last thing you said to him," he says, and Emma's okay with one or two tears slipping out before she wipes them away, because it's David and he's her brother and he's not exactly unemotional himself. This is something they've been waiting to do for twelve years. "I don't have that. I don't remember the last thing I said to my dad. I don't remember the last thing he said to me - _my own father_. We fought a lot, and he and Mom argued a lot, but he was my _dad_. And you… well, the fact that you remember all of that isn't - it's not for the best reason. But you had something I didn't, and I was just… I was angry for a long time. And maybe I was mad because you were there when he - I know it's not -"

Emma laughs wetly, swiping at her cheeks again. "I'd say I'd gladly have traded places with you, but honestly I just wish the whole thing hadn't happened."

"I know," he says quietly, wiping his own face. "I'm not trying to downplay that. You just had something I didn't. I didn't realize I could get jealous over something so… _morbid_."

She's seen people get jealous over the smallest thing, been jealous herself over ridiculous things. David had fifteen years with his dad before sharing the final two with Emma. She gets it. "I'm sure there's some bullshit psych reason for it, only child syndrome or whatever," she says and gets the chuckle she was aiming for.

They're quiet for a bit, composing themselves, listening to the horses settle down for the evening. "I guess we needed that," David says. She nods against him. "I just hate that it took someone getting hurt for us to talk about it."

Emma feels the dread creeping back up her spine, snuffing out the small moment of peace. She _really_ doesn't want to have this next conversation. "Yeah."

"How is -" David starts, but he's cut off by Emma's phone ringing.

She frowns, wondering who would be calling at this time on a Friday evening as she pulls it out of her pocket. The name on the screen bewilders her. "Will? What's going on?" she asks, answering the call.

"Emma, you need to get over here. Now."

She shrugs at David's questioning look. "Will, get over where -" she starts to ask, then she hears the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up and a woman's soothing voice in the background. "What the hell is going on? Are you okay?"

"M'fine, lass, s'not me I'm worried about - your bloody berk of a boyfriend tryin' to poison himself is what I'm worried about," Will explains, sounding stressed.

Emma grimaces, her head falling back against the wall briefly. "Will…"

"Lass, I've no idea what's been going on between the two of you, but I've not seen hide nor hair of you round here for a week and Mrs. Gold and I found this idiot on the floor in a puddle of his own mess, babblin'," he says tersely. "He's not listening to any other rule, why bother keepin' his mouth shut too? Bloody ponce… The only thing that's makin' any sense is your name."

She starts a little when David puts his hand on her arm. "Emma, go." When she gives him an incredulous look of her own, he raises an eyebrow. "Will's not the quietest talker. Trust me, you'll want to be there."

Emma shifts the phone away from her mouth. "David -"

"Emma, I don't know what's going on between you two," he interrupts, "but one way or another you're going to want to be there. If he gets bad, you'll never forgive yourself. If he gets better… Maybe you two shouldn't wait more than a decade to talk about this."

She has never hated the way he can read her so well more than in this moment. He knows he's right, she knows he's right - hell, probably Will knows that David is right.

As much as she can't bear the thought of facing Killian after their display on Monday, she needs to get over herself and talk to him like a grown woman.

Twenty minutes later, still covered in stable grime, Emma pauses outside the back door to Killian's house. The bigger part of her still feels like turning around and going home is a great idea, but her rational self is having an underdog moment. She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders before walking into Killian's kitchen.

Belle's sitting on the floor, Killian's head cradled in her lap; he's laying on his side, the ugly bruise on his jaw on display for everyone to see. Will's pacing in short circles, arguing with someone on the phone - his accent's thicker when he's irritated and Emma can only make out about half the words coming out of his mouth. Belle glances up and Emma must have imagined the brief look of panic on her face because she blinks and Belle's smiling tensely. "He's stopped throwing up at least," Belle says softly, brushing Killian's bangs away from his forehead.

Jealousy flares under Emma's breastbone and she quickly stamps it out. _Belle's married, for Christ's sake_, she tells herself sternly. _And after Monday_…

After Monday, she doesn't know.

She glances around the kitchen as she kneels next to him, unsure of what else to do. There's a broom haphazardly propped up in the corner, half-covering a fairly large pile of glass; there's a mop and a bucket and Emma quickly figures out why they're out when she catches a whiff of the smell coming from the trash can within Belle's reach. "Jesus," she mutters.

Will hangs up the phone and slips it in his coat pocket. He crouches on Killian's other side, scowling at his boss. "Apparently it's grand if he keeps pukin' 'is guts out. Gets whatever's in 'im out. We'll wake 'im in a bit and get him to drink water, or rinse 'is mouth out, whatever. Call in an hour with an update. He went in not long before this so I hope he's not that much of a git and needs to go back in hospital."

Emma glances from Killian's face up to Will's. "What exactly happened here? He's supposed to be resting, not working."

Will's scowl deepens. "And I've a few choice words for _you_, lass, but I'll save 'em. Right, he's been in the office a few hours a day, bloody ponce can't listen to anyone who tells 'im otherwise. Mrs. Gold here came over to work with Shade. Shade's gone a bit lame, see. Idiot here closes up the office, goes up to the house. I get some work done, Mrs. Gold does her bit and about an hour later comes up to me an' says she needs a sedative for Shade. Med cabinet is empty, I says we come up to the house and check if a shipment came to the wrong door."

"He was on the floor," Belle says quietly. "There was a bottle of something in pieces on the floor, and a dent in the wall and alcohol splashed everywhere. We tried to move him. He kept mumbling under his breath, and then he started throwing up - I can't imagine it's easy with his mouth like that."

Emma shakes her head. The doctor had said as much. "He shouldn't be drinking when he's on so many medications - shouldn't be drinking _at all_."

"An' whose fault is _that_?" Will fires at her.

Emma's face heats up. Her irritation from the week only dimmed during her talk with David, she has zero problem with taking her frustrations out on Will Scarlet - she still owes him a punch in the face for Henry and the cigarette ordeal. "Whatever happened between me and him is _our_ business, Scarlet, so if you like the shape of your nose, I'd shut up right now."

"It's my bloody business if I have to move _another _dead body out of here! Twice in one year is more than enough, innit?"

It's like he dumped a bucket of ice over her - fear kills her temper, makes her stomach lurch and her heart race. Her eyes flick to Killian's face, then down to his chest to make sure he's still breathing. Logically she knows Belle wouldn't be sitting there calmly finger-combing his hair if he wasn't, but rational thought is slipping further and further out of reach.

She forgot it's not just her, not just Henry, who was affected by Graham's death last fall. She still knows a lot of the crew here, by face if not by name. They saw her grow into herself as a horsewoman, teased her as much as Graham had about Neal and 'merging enterprises' between the Nolans and the Golds someday. She doesn't know how it would affect them to lose _another_ boss in such a short time.

She doesn't know how it would affect her, either.

(She knows. She's been avoiding this for a week because she absolutely knows how it would affect her.)

Will's been at the Horn eleven years. He knew Graham longer and better than she did - knew _Neal_ longer and better. He probably knows Killian better than her too.

And doesn't that sit badly in the pit of her stomach?

She realizes she's been staring with her mouth open for longer than is strictly comfortable. She looks down at her clenched fists and tries to squash down her fears. They'll do her no good right now. "Will, get some water," Belle says, breaking the tension between them. "And something to squirt the water into his mouth."

Will gets up to obey as she starts to lift Killian up. "Wake up, Killian," she croons. "Come on, let's sit up and have a nice water and then you can rest a bit more, yeah? Get that taste out of your mouth, you'll feel better."

He mumbles something, but his arms are moving and trying to hold his weight as Belle gets him to sit up. That makes Emma feel marginally better. Will's found a turkey baster and Belle and Emma manage to get Killian propped over the trash can. "Don't drink this bit, mate," Will tells him, surprisingly gentle. "Spit it out, good man. Alright, now drink up or Emma'll have my head."

She cuts her eyes at him briefly before making sure Killian isn't going to choke. A few more minutes of cajoling later, the glass is empty and they're laying him on his side again. "Emma," Killian mumbles.

She hesitates, then meets Belle's pointed gaze. "Switch places with me," Belle says briskly. "He'll feel better if it's you."

Oh, God, they're trying to kill her. She's nowhere near prepared for this, but Belle's raising her eyebrows in an expectant way that reminds Emma of one of her teachers in third grade and it's enough to get her moving. Emma pleads silently for strength as she and Belle trade places. Killian sighs as Emma brushes his hair away from his face. "I'm - I'm right here," she says, her voice unsteady. "Just… hang on, okay?"

It's very strange to sit on the floor, coddling someone suffering on the edge of alcohol poisoning, while Will and Belle clean up the kitchen. Last week, she'd sat in a cold, all-too familiar hospital waiting area, reliving the past and blaming herself for what had happened. Now she sits in another familiar location, fully aware that she had a hand in Killian's condition. She's still afraid but it's not as all-consuming as it was last week - something about being here, in his kitchen, makes this a bit more manageable. Emma half-listens as Belle grumbles about how much glass there is. Will cleans up after Si and Am - Emma's heart hurts to think of Killian being like this all week, if he's even thought to take care of his cats.

His home.

Dammit, she's _not _going to cry anymore. She's _done_ crying.

(She sniffles once or twice; both Belle and Will are kind enough not to mention it.)

She lets herself card her fingers through his hair, trying to sort through the jumble of feelings racing around and around in her head. Eventually, when he sobers up, she and Killian will need to talk. (She's not leaving this time, not until she knows he's okay. She owes him that much.) But where to start? If he _does_ love her, he'll want to know how she feels about that and how she feels about him in return. She's uncomfortable to realize that she doesn't quite know. She's thought once or twice that maybe, just maybe, she does love him. But is it real? Or just a side effect of how he makes her feel when they have sex?

He sighs and Emma echoes the sentiment. And then there's this, the fact that he's drunk when he shouldn't be, that he's mixing booze and narcotics. She wishes she could say this side of him is unexpected, but she remembers that night this summer when they'd fought and he'd stormed out and she'd sat in the hallway and cried. She remembers finally working up the courage to go find him, find him drinking himself numb in the barn, finding herself more than willing to join him.

She's not a stranger to drinking herself into a stupor to forget. But she's not twenty-three anymore. She has responsibilities, people to look after. As much as she'd like to drown her sorrows in a bottle, she can't go on another bender like that again.

Emma squeezes her eyes shut, her head starting to ache. She's gone around in a similar circle to this at _least_ ten times a day over the last couple of days and every time she comes out with no answer. This all just makes it harder - she needs to _talk_ to him, she realizes that now, and he's… like this. They told each other "here and now. You and me, right now," so often, but at the moment? With the booze and the making himself sick? The _here and now_, the _right now_, is scary.

If he does love her, _you and me_ is downright terrifying.

Killian turns a little in her lap, almost burying his nose in the crook of her knee, sighing her name as she stills her fingers in his hair. "Still me, I'm right here," she says softly. "It's going to be okay."

Time will tell if that's a lie.

They get him to drink again and then Belle goes upstairs to turn down the bedding; Will and Emma manage to get Killian on his feet and slowly make their way upstairs, half-carrying Killian between them. In the bedroom, Emma's heart twists at the curtain rod dangling from one bracket, the blue curtains she'd bought for him in a heap on the floor; she deserves that. She stubbornly avoids Belle's curious gaze and ignores Will's huff as they heave Killian into the bed. "I'll sit up here with him," Emma says, tucking the blankets around him. "Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit."

"Emma, lass," Will starts, but Emma cuts him off.

"I know where to find you if something goes wrong."

She glances at each of them briefly. Belle's the first to nod. She takes hold of Will's hand and gently pulls him towards the door, but he hesitates in the doorway. Emma smiles thinly. "It'll be okay, Will."

He nods, but he looks every bit as unsure as she does.

-/-

Shards of glass piercing him would hurt less than the sunlight streaming through his window.

Killian buries his head under a pillow, feeling as if he's been dragged across the Sahara by a band of wild horses and left to cook in the unforgiving sun until his dying breath. And quite frankly, the dying breath part doesn't sound half bad right now. _Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what the hell happened?_

Sense comes to him slowly. His limbs feel heavy, his stomach pained. His mouth aches like he's gone another round with Bluff's hooves. There's vague memory of... sometime. He doesn't know how long ago it was. Last night? Last week? He can see young Mrs. Gold's lovely face etched with concern. There's Scarlet calling him all sorts of eejit, though that isn't exactly significant. Strangest of all is Emma's voice, quietly telling him it's going to be okay.

Though he's had that dream a lot, recently.

Flashes of someone yelling, water being forced on him, the feeling of someone's fingers in his hair.

Maybe he dreamed all of that too.

He doesn't remember coming up to bed - though frankly, he hasn't slept many nights in the bedroom recently. There are too many memories of Emma in his bed to allow him a peaceful rest. She's like a ghost, haunting every inch of the room: sleeping soundly next to him as he gets up for morning workouts, fixing her hair in the bathroom, even the damn curtains remind him of her. He'd ripped them off the wall the first - only - night he'd slept in the bedroom. The sun streaming through the window now makes him regret that a bit, but it _hurt_ to remember her putting them up.

_Emma's standing on a stepstool, cursing under her breath as she wrestles with a curtain rod. Blue curtains hang from it, seemingly the source of her problem. Killian smirks, leaning on the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest. "Love, what are you doing?"_

_She starts, whipping her head around - God in heaven she looks beautiful with her hair fanning out like that. "Jesus Christ, don't scare me like that," she says._

"_I prefer Killian, but it's up to you," he teases and she rolls her eyes. "You didn't answer my question."_

_She turns away from him, working at the curtain rod again. "It won't kill you to have some color in this room, Jones. White walls, wood furnishing, a girl's gonna go crazy if you don't liven things up around here."_

_His smirk widens as he walks over to her. She lets out a little yelp of success when she takes her hands away and the curtains don't end up in a heap on the floor. He lifts her easily from the stepstool and sets her on the bed. "Things in here aren't lively enough for you?" he asks, toying with a lock of her hair._

_Emma's eyebrow goes up, but a smile creeps up on her face. Her legs part a little and her fingers find his belt loops, pulling him closer. "Well, I'd rather head this kind of thing off before I get bored. Can't have that, can we?"_

_Killian pushes the lock of hair behind her ear, cradling the back of her head. "No, we can't," he whispers before catching her lips with his._

His heart squeezes at the memory and all he wants is to grab another bottle of whisky to drown it out, but he's fairly sure he's drunk or broken them all at this point. It's been a bad week for sure, ignoring the lads' requests that he heed the doctor's orders and coming back up to the house at the end of the day to numb his sorrows however he can. It's hard - Emma's everywhere in the house - but as long as he stays out of the bedroom it seems to hurt less... His brain catches up to the rest of him, fully registering his current location. _How_ did he get to the bedroom? He's barely made it to the couch recently, but the _bedroom_?

A soft sigh and the creaking sound of wood settling alerts him to someone else's presence. _Buggering hell_, Killian thinks as hot shame blossoms in his chest. Maybe Mrs. Gold and Will weren't a dream, maybe he called Emma -

God, he hopes he didn't call her, to have her see him in such a state -

Gingerly, he rolls over towards the sound and forces his heavy arm to lift the pillow. His heart sinks further: a mess of blonde hair he'd recognize anywhere is sprawled across the side of the bed, arms folded under her head as the rest of her is seated in a chair from the kitchen. _She's here, she's here, she's here_, his heart seems to beat out the words as he struggles with the idea that he might still be dreaming, that this can't possibly be reality.

When he realizes that he is awake, that this is real, he's not happy. He _should_ be happy that she's here, that's she's at his bedside, that she's spent all this time (how long has he been out of sorts?) at his side to make sure he was still alive. That should count for something, right?

All he can feel is anger.

She's here _now_. When he's beaten and broken by _her_ hand, _her_ actions. She's at his bedside _now_, not when he needed her presence after the accident. She's here to see his shame, the shell of a man who has been left behind and lost everything too many times and fell prey to his weaknesses. She's at his side to make sure he's still alive, but _why_? She didn't care after the accident, she left, _she doesn't love him_.

Why is she here now? A misplaced sense of duty? Guilt?

He doesn't want her pity.

His body feels like it's made of lead weights but he works to push himself up. The pain in his shoulder makes him want to scream but he pushes past it, letting it feed into his temper. His head throbs and moving so much makes his stomach turn but he ignores all of it or else he'll never get out of this godforsaken bed. He pauses when he's sitting up, scrubbing his face with his hand. He needs to leave, needs to go down to the shedrow and get some fucking work done, exhaust himself so he stops thinking, get away from _her_ -

"Killian?"

Her voice is thick with sleep, calling to mind mornings when he's woken her up to make love to her before he has to start the day, mornings when she's slept through her alarm and is still abed when he comes to her with coffee. There's a small part of him that is yet to be consumed by his ire - the part that missed her desperately, the part wants to shove everything else aside, gather her in his arms and hold her, revel in the fact that _here and now_ they're together, damn everything else.

He doesn't listen to that part.

"Bloody fuck," he mutters. His speech is slow and clumsy, halted by the mess of metal in his mouth, but he's _done_ with half-arsed sign language and writing every bloody thing down. "What are you doing here?" he asks flatly, trying to get his legs to move. It hurts to move, hurts to _speak_, but he doesn't care. He needs to get out of this fucking bed before he goes mad.

Emma sits up, shoving her hair back from her face. "Will called me last night," she says softly, hesitantly meeting his eyes. "Belle was here too. You were pretty messed up. David told me - David said I should be here, in case -"

"In case I killed myself, you mean," Killian deadpans. Her eyes widen, her breath catching in her throat. "Well, good on me then, not succeeding in that."

She looks away; that small part of him feels guilty, but he's too angry to care. "Why are you here _now_? After every other fucking thing that's happened this week, you choose _now_ to be here?"

Her voice comes out a whisper. "I - I thought -"

"No, _you_ didn't," he spits out. "_David_ thought and you followed orders. Would you be here if he didn't say so?"

Her eyes close and that small part of him is trying to make him shut up before he says something truly awful. "It's my fault," she whispers.

"You're damn right it is," Killian says.

She flinches and he thinks that's it, she'll leave him alone in his misery now, let him stew in his rage and be done with him - but he's forgotten she has a temper too. Emma meets his eyes again and he can see a fire building there too; not quite the inferno he's feeling now, but he knows if he pushes her the right way they'll rage toe-to-toe at one another. "I came so we could talk like civilized goddamn people," she snaps. "Yes, I came to make sure you weren't dead, because I don't think I can handle _another_ corpse being carted off this goddamn farm, but I stayed _because_ I didn't last time. It's my fault, and I wanted - I wanted to make up for that."

"You want to talk? Fine. What shall we talk about then, Swan?" he asks, deliberately ignoring the part that's telling him to shut up, telling him not to be his father, not to destroy the sanctuary of the bedroom. There's a week's tirade built up inside him born from sorrow and heartbreak and drugs and drink. The dam's about to burst and he's damn sure he's not interested in stopping it - the only hindrance is his damn mouth, unable to keep up with the speed at which his thoughts are raging through his mind. "The fact that you ran from me? Twice? The fact that Will bloody Scarlet had to drag you kicking and screaming to see me in hospital? The fact that you're another in a long line of people I've loved and have left me behind?"

Her fists clench. "Don't you _dare_ act like you're the only person in this room who's ever been left behind, Killian Jones, because I've got a list a mile and a half long. I win that game any day of the week. Playing the pity card doesn't work with me."

"Good thing I don't want your fucking pity then."

"That fucking concussion is doing an awful lot of talking for you, mostly out of your ass," she snarls.

His own fists are squeezed so tightly he can feel his joints grinding in protest. "Oh this is all me, sweetheart, I've had a long bloody week to think about this. _You_ left _me,_ cleaved my heart clean in two, like I'd insulted you something terrible."

Emma's glare could freeze the ocean several feet thick. "So you deal with it by popping pills and binge drinking? That's really fucking mature, Killian. Here I thought I just had to deal with Henry falling down the fucking rabbit hole."

"What the fuck else was I supposed to do?"

"Deal with it like a goddamn adult! Don't try to fucking kill yourself over something that isn't fucking worth it!"

He snorts derisively, ignoring the stab of pity that she still thinks of herself that way. "I don't know how they do things in America, Swan, but in Ireland we _drink_ when someone we love leaves us."

"You were never supposed to fall in love with me!" she shouts.

"Well I'm sorry for being bloody fucking _human_!" he roars back.

Emma's lip trembles; she's pale with fury and Killian feels his rage abate slightly. He knows her past, what little she's told him. He knows she's afraid of being hurt, has been hurt too many times in the past to be readily accepting of his feelings - but she's got to make a decision. He needs her to decide where they stand, what her feelings are in all of this, what she _wants_. He can't live in this half-state anymore, this idea where they're together but they don't talk about how they truly _feel_ about each other. He can't be with her without _being_ with her.

He loves her. She's enough to drive a man mad some sometimes and he's angrier than he ever can remember being before, but God help him, he loves Emma Swan.

"I can't do this," she whispers finally, standing. "I can't talk about this anymore, not like this. I thought - I thought that -" Her voice breaks and a part of him breaks with her. "This is stupid, I shouldn't have come here, I shouldn't have listened to David, or Will, or Belle."

_She's running away again_. "Emma."

"I just wanted to be enough for someone," she says, almost to herself. "As I am."

His head throbs, the after-effect of rage leaving him with a headache that pulses through his entire body. Despite his earlier desire to get the hell out of this room, he wants nothing more than to curl up and pretend this was all a dream, that he can wake up later and redo everything, talk about this more rationally.

Anger is exhausting.

He wants to say that she was enough - _is_ enough - that _he_ just wants to be good enough for _her_, be good enough to deserve her love, to love her in return. He wants to say she made him feel whole for the first time in ten years, made him feel like he had more to live for, more to strive for than shallow dreams of fame and fortune. He wants to tell her that for the first time in more than twenty years he's felt like he's come _home_.

For the first time in his life, he doesn't have the words to make her listen. Doesn't know how to tell her without frightening her, doesn't know how to talk about how the past week has made him feel without the rage and anger and pain.

She's walking towards the door.

She's leaving.

His heart races - he doesn't know what to say to stop her. He doesn't know if he _can_ to stop her at this point. They're both too angry, too hurt, too caught up in the moment. He's pushed her, and she'd pushed him back. She's leaving and he's so cross with her but he only wants her to stay. Not to fight, not to push each other to the bloody brink anymore, not to be a repeat performance of his parents, but to _be_. Be open with each other. Be honest with each other. Be comfortable about anything with each other. Be _with_ each other.

_I need to think._

"Wait," Killian says softly. He needs to know, but in all honesty he needs _her_ more than anything else. If she's going to leave, he needs to say his piece. _She_ needs to know. "Emma, please, just… wait."

"Why?" Emma fires back, though she pauses in the doorway. "One last insult for the road?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose; he deserves that. He's too exhausted to fight back, though, everything hurts too much and he already has quite a lot he wants to say; he lets her have it. "Lass, I… I don't want this to just be it, just end. This… today didn't start right, this week's been shit, but I still… Emma, I love you." She tenses up at those three words and his heart hammers in his chest; he feels he's lost her to her armor and walls, but the fact that she doesn't run gives him courage to continue. "I had a grand plan to tell you, but life had other ideas. And after everything this week I still love you. After this morning I still love you. I just want you to be safe, be happy. If you're going to run away, just… just keep that in mind, aye?"

Emma doesn't say anything. The minutes seem to drag on and on and he waits for her to say something, do something. He's placed his bets, though, he can't do anything else but wait to see the outcome of the race. "I just wanted you to know," he says softly.

She looks over her shoulder at him; there's tears in her eyes and he curses his body's inability to get up and go comfort her - if she'd have him. Her gaze drops to the floor again. "I'm sorry," she whispers, and walks out the door.

Her footsteps down the stairs echo long after the sound of the front door shutting behind her has faded away. He wants to laugh - she's never apologized for a damn thing before and _this_ is when she chooses to start - but even his twisted sense of humor fails to find this funny.

She's gone.

_She doesn't love me._

* * *

**It's killing me not to be able to update this as frequently, but life is getting in the way. This is not a 'I don't know what the plot is doing' problem. I know where we're going, I've known since the start. This is a 'I am working so much' problem. I promise to update as frequently as I can, but I just ask for your patience in the coming months.**

**Thank you so much for reading and continuing to leave your wonderful reviews. They delight me to no end and motivate me more than anything else.**


	19. October 4-23

**Thank you, thank you, thank you everyone who sent kind, encouraging, and supportive words with last chapter's announcement. It'll still be slow going, but you really helped me find motivation to get every bit of writing time in that I could. (other motivation came from how there have been a lot of CS + horses and Henry + horses scenes in the last couple of episodes and_ I demand a cease and desist on my emotions A&amp;E_)**

* * *

She starts the Bug with shaking hands - it takes three tries to even get the key into the ignition. She really wishes driving isn't so second-nature to her at this point, she needs distraction, needs to _stop thinking_ about what she's just done. _Emma, I love you - _no_. Stop thinking about it,_ she tells herself firmly, taking deep breaths to calm her racing heart and will her emotions away. She glances at the clock after she pulls out of the driveway and down the street: it's not even ten-thirty in the morning and she's just ruined what was once the best thing in her life.

_Shit. It's after ten. It's Saturday_. Emma glances down at her stable clothes, filthy from last night and further wrinkled by sleep, then at her reflection in the mirror. She looks like she spent the night in a chair; there's still straw in her hair and she smells to high heaven, but there's no time to go home and change before she has to be at the Downs. She's running late as it is.

She can focus on this. Focus on talking her way out of a lecture if she runs into Spencer, focus on how to laugh off anyone making comments about how she looks, focus on explaining _why _she looks the way she does without _explaining_ when Ruby inevitably asks -

Emma shifts gears a little harder than necessary because everything's going to come back to this today, isn't it? She's not going to get away from it, not going to be able to avoid talking about how she and Killian -

Her knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel too tight. If she lets go, if she eases up even a little, she's going to hit something: the steering wheel, or maybe parking the car and kicking the tires, or possibly herself for being too afraid to let him in and give him the power to completely break her. Her eyes burn and the lump is back in her throat and God _damnit_, she is _done _with crying.

How did everything fall apart so quickly? How did she get from "we're going to talk" to "I'm sorry, I'm leaving"?

God, the look on his face...

Emma pulls off to the side of the road and lets her head fall against the steering wheel as she lets the tears fall. She lets herself have three minutes to cry, bleed out some of the emotion, tide her over until she can get home and to the safety of her bed. She takes a few shaky breaths to snap herself out of it and grabs a napkin, trying to salvage what little dignity she has left; at the very least, she can show up without mascara running down her face or making her raccoon eyes worse. She might wear her sunglasses inside…

Things are bustling when she pulls into the Downs; it's a typical Saturday. Emma quickly pulls her hair into a ponytail and keeps her head down as she makes her way to the grandstand; at a glance anyone else would think she looks like any other stablehand or outrider going to clock in, but the racing officials know her. She uses the crowds and frantic employees to her advantage to dodge any commissioners or judges she spots on her way inside. She takes the back stairs up to the studio: the racing officials rarely go up to the press box that way.

Ruby's already sitting in the control room when Emma jogs in; she raises her eyebrows when Emma flops into her seat and starts up the machines. "_Whoa_," is all Ruby has to say when she gives Emma a once-over.

"There is no '_whoa_'," Emma says, her scowl deepening. She hasn't removed her sunglasses yet; there's nothing to comment on until she does.

"Uh, yes there is," Ruby says, setting her coffee cup on the floor. Emma eyes it enviously; caffeine would help her growing headache. "First, you're like, way late. You're a workaholic, you are never this late. Second, you do know that Spencer will kill you himself if he sees you looking like this, right?"

Emma glares at her friend, forgetting for a moment that she's still wearing the sunglasses. "Good thing I'm not planning on letting him see me then."

Ruby rolls her eyes. "Right. Third, sunglasses? And you missed some mascara on your jawline, you're all streaky. 'Whoa' doesn't even begin to cover it. What the hell happened?"

Emma drags her thumb along her jaw as she considers the question. She seriously doesn't want to get into this with Ruby, not even a full half-hour since Emma ruined her own life and has hardly begun to process it herself. There's no way she can explain it to anyone else right now. But thankfully, Emma's saved from answering when Elsa comes in, bearing a mug of steaming water; she's caneless today, much to Emma's relief. She doesn't think she could handle that sight again on top of everything else today. Elsa eyes both of them carefully as she goes to her chair. "What's going on in here?" she asks carefully, opening her tea box.

"I was just asking that," Ruby says. "Now she doesn't have to explain twice."

They're both looking at her expectantly: Elsa's gaze is cautious, curious; Ruby's is determined, impatient.

Emma doesn't want to talk about this. She couldn't talk about it with _Killian,_ not even when he told her outright that he loved her, just wanted to see her happy. She started to walk out on him because she was tired of fighting. She was tired of being insulted when all she'd wanted to do was explain and he wasn't interested in listening, wasn't interested in understanding _why_. Then she threw a sorry excuse for an apology in his face, because the fact that they could fight like that? The fact that she'd done something that awful and somehow he could just say 'I love you' without any explanations? That's too terrifying to even think about. She's a mess, she doesn't understand, she doesn't know how to _feel_.

And there's a part of her that wonders if he'd even meant it - "_Emma, I love you_."

Can you still love someone after they essentially abandon you? Emma knows she can't. She'll always wonder about her birth parents, but she's long outgrown her childish wishes to find them and have them realize it was all a mistake, that they hadn't meant to leave her on the front step of some fire station with only a blanket bearing her name. If she ever met them she wouldn't even want to give them the satisfaction of asking _why_. She made her choice long ago, just as they had.

She knows Killian isn't broken in the same way that she is. He has his own demons to face, but love is not one of them. The dogged ways he kept pace with her, his easy smiles and open affection when she'd allowed him in - Killian Jones is an affectionate man. She knows her mistrust is misplaced: he would never tell her he loved her unless he truly meant it. Lying about something that big just isn't in him.

It scares her. It's scary and too real and she wishes she knew how to fix it - fix _herself_. But she doesn't know if she even can fix it at this point. She'd fallen asleep last night with all these expectations of talking things over rationally, explaining why she'd been so upset and run off, hoping that he could be understanding if she said she didn't know if she reciprocated his feelings. _Maybe someday…_

No, she's gone and fucked up _someday_ by letting her temper get the better of her, getting scared, tossing his feelings back in his face, and running away. She's good at that, getting out before things get messy and people get hurt.

But if she's so good at not getting hurt, why does she feel like her body's turning itself inside out?

She realizes it's been a several minutes since Ruby posed her question, but Ruby's undeterred, waiting for her answer with all the stillness and intensity of a wolfhound. Emma clears her throat to loosen the tightness that's taken up residence once more and knows the moment she speaks she's going to lose her grip on her emotions again. "Elsa, remember when… remember what you said about ice cream and letting Ruby pick out the movies?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Elsa's shoulders droop. "Oh, Emma. I'm so sorry."

Emma's so _done_ with crying, but a sob tears its way out of her chest anyway; she covers her mouth with her hand and there's nothing she can do to stop the tears once they start.

_My fault, my fault, my fault._

* * *

Emma drops the ice cream carton on the coffee table, her stomach protesting the amount of sugar she's poured into it over the last couple of hours. She's curled up on the couch, her head resting on Elsa's leg; Ruby's insisting on spooning Emma for moral support (and to steal spoonfuls of rocky road).

Elsa's promise of a girls' night in case things went south with Emma and Killian is going rather well. They've got Elsa and Anna's place to themselves; Anna had left for Boston after work to spend some time with Kristoff. (Apparently hockey players are a superstitious bunch and Anna always visits before his regular season starts.) Elsa let Emma use their shower and borrow some comfortable clothes while she and Ruby went to get the ice cream and one of Victor's movie collections. Ruby's been keeping them well-preoccupied with slasher flicks - in her words, "We're not weeping over _The Notebook_. Fuck dudes, we're going to watch them get murdered."

Emma hasn't told them that it's actually her that's the problem here, but she appreciates the sentiment anyway.

It's getting late when they finish _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ ("The original, not the remake, thank you very much," Ruby had declared) and Emma's really regretting stuffing her face earlier because holy blood effects. She thought she'd gotten through the worst of it with _Carrie_, but apparently not. Ruby sits up, stretching, and Emma copies her, working the kinks out of her spine; Ruby grins and nudges her, pointing to Elsa. She's fast asleep, her head resting on her fist. "I need to step up my game if she falls asleep during a classic like that," Ruby whispers.

"She might be the real winner here," Emma mumbles; her stomach is still rolling.

They take the dirty spoons and half-melted ice cream cartons back to the kitchen, debating whether to salvage what's left or not. Emma wins out against wasting perfectly good - if a little melty - food and Ruby loads the dishwasher. Chores done, Emma grabs a glass of water, hoping that will settle her stomach. "So, not that I mind being the supportive friend post-breakup, but I do kind of like knowing why my services were needed," Ruby says, folding her arms across her chest and leaning against the counter.

Emma sighs, downing the rest of her water in one go and putting the glass in the dishwasher. She leans back against the wall, hands tucked behind her back. "It's not pretty," she says.

Ruby shrugs and Emma worries her lip between her teeth. She definitely doesn't feel as bad as she did earlier, but saying it out loud - talking about it with someone else - makes it feel more real, like she can't just go to bed tonight and pretend she didn't just ruin the best thing in her life. She takes a deep breath and starts from the top, haltingly rehashing the last week since the accident and finishing with the fight this morning. She tries not to leave anything out - what both she and Killian said, her conversations with David and Will, even her little breakdown in the car earlier. She doesn't really feel like painting herself or Killian as the villain or the victim; rationally, she knows they both fucked up. She knows she fucked up worse by leaving - twice - but Ruby gets to make her own decisions about that.

Elsa's in the doorway when Emma finishes. "Wow," she says, breaking the silence that had fallen.

"What she said," Ruby agrees.

Emma crosses her arms uncomfortably. "Yeah," she mumbles, looking down at the floor. She waits for the verdict to drop - she's a bitch, she's being unfair, she's selfish - but it takes her completely by surprise when Elsa hugs her tightly. "Wh -"

Elsa pulls back, holding Emma's shoulders. Her eyes search Emma's, her mouth pulled down in a worried frown. "How are you feeling?"

Emma's mouth drops open. "What?"

"Are you still upset, or are you over it, how are you feeling right now?"

Emma blinks. "Confused, mostly? You don't hate me?"

Ruby walks over to them lightly punching Emma in the arm. "Yeah, we're going to hate you when you've just spilled Lifetime's next movie of the week. Minus the miscarriage or tragic return of the long-lost twin brother's girlfriend with a bastard son or whatever."

"I think that's a soap opera," Emma starts to say, but Ruby waves her off.

"Details, you get my point," she says. "Look, I'm not saying you're a hundred percent right, because you did do a pretty shitty thing. Kick a guy when he's down, why don't you." Emma tries not to scratch at her wrist at that remark. She had it coming for opening up like this, after all. Ruby continues, "But he shouldn't have said those things to you either. You wanted to do the olive branch thing, he came out swinging. You had every right to swing back and then get out when you had a moment."

Elsa nods sympathetically. "It sounds like neither one of you were in a good place to really discuss it, so you took the simplest route."

Ruby fingers the ends of her hair. "Still, dropping the big three on you like that… I dunno, Emma. That's a desperate move."

Emma lets her head fall back against the wall. "I know, but I think he meant it. Which… he shouldn't after all of this, right? That's crazy. How could he possibly want to be with me after all of this?"

Elsa and Ruby trade a look that Emma can't decipher. There's pity there, though, and she sincerely hopes they don't breathe a word about her past because she's done if they do. End of conversation. Elsa speaks first. "So then it's over-over? Between you and Killian?"

Emma sighs, pulling back a little out of Elsa's reach. "I don't know. I mean, we didn't exactly say 'okay well that's it, it's over, here's your stuff back, see you never'. But he said the _thing _and I basically said thanks, but no thanks, so..."

Elsa's shaking her head, but it's Ruby who asks, "But do _you_ want it to be over?"

Emma doesn't have an answer to that. It's the question she's been circling around for days. She definitely cares about Killian - she wouldn't hurt like this if she didn't. She just… "I don't know. I don't feel - yes I want this part to be over because it sucks but no I don't want him to leave? But that's not fair to him and me just wanting the good parts without bad parts isn't…" She pauses for a moment as the thought of Killian not being anywhere in her life strikes her.

It hurts. A lot.

It's terrifying that it should hurt so much.

"I don't know," Emma finally whispers, her eyes burning but there's no more tears for to shed.

Elsa and Ruby trade a look. "Oh, sweetie," Ruby says, putting her arm around Emma's shoulder comfortingly. "Come on, one more movie. We'll discuss what you need to do later."

"Ruby…"

Elsa nods. "No, she's right. We're not going to say anything you don't already know, but I don't think talking to Killian is going to help either of you right now. You need space to cool off and figure things out. One more movie, then sleep."

"Like you haven't already been sleeping," Emma grouses, but Elsa just gives her a patient look. Emma sighs and lets them pull her back into the living room. She does know what they're going to say: _You should talk to Killian about this_. "Just promise me you won't do something like invite us both somewhere under false pretenses just to make us talk."

Ruby flicks through the DVD binder as Emma and Elsa sit back down on the couch. "As long as you promise to talk to him eventually. Like, before Christmas. Okay, I won't even give you nightmares with this one. It's Victor's favorite."

Emma settles back as Ruby pops _Young Frankenstein_ in. They're right: she and Killian definitely need to talk - _actually_ talk this time, not just hurl insults and grievances at each other. She tries to think when the doctor had said his concussion would be healed; probably best to wait until then.

_Until then_, she thinks as she leans her head against Elsa's shoulder. _If Mel Brooks doesn't help me feel better, nothing will._

-/-

Thursday dawns without the usual stream of protests from Will about how he needs to rest, how he can't get better if he tries to get his head bashed in again every morning. Killian eyes Will with suspicion through the morning workouts, but his assistant offers up nothing but the usual reports and feedback.

It's a calm morning, the air crisp with morning fog and autumn dew that'll burn off in a few hours. Killian keeps his guard up around Will, but finds the otherwise peaceful morning a soothing balm on his wounded soul. These are the mornings he loves most, the almost-dawn with just enough light to play games with one's eyes. The horses plodding along with their walkers in silhouette, emerging from the fog as if in a dream, steam rolling off the beasts' backs and clouds of it blooming with every exhale. The fog muffling the thrum of hoofbeats on hard-packed dirt, the jingle of brasswork and iron on tack, the lads taking the piss out of each other.

Mornings like this are like magic at the shedrow.

Perhaps it's the morning's magic working on Will, because he even behaves himself as he gets ready to go out to the track. There's not even a gripe about that, no "Mate, I can't stand the gamblers hoverin' at the fences" or "Blimey if I have to listen to one more story from that Doc, I swear on me mum" or any other bollocksed attempt at getting out of doing his job.

Killian blames his concussion for not seeing it sooner.

He's in the tack room taking inventory when he hears it: someone clearing their throat, that someone being distinctly feminine. His heart leaps up into his throat, hammering painfully as he tries to talk himself down. He hasn't seen hide nor hair of Emma since Saturday when she ran out on him again. It's not as if he's expecting to see her at all - she's made it clear enough that she doesn't care a whit about him - but there's a stupid part of him that's held on to hope.

The part of him that's still in love with her.

When he turns, it's not Emma leaning against the doorframe but rather Mrs. Gold. She's dressed in sensible work clothes, her hair in a curling ponytail and covered with a knit beanie, but he'd have to be blind not to see how she manages to turn the fraying clothes and muddy boots into elegant garments. Gold is a lucky bastard indeed to have asked such a lovely woman to be his wife. "Mrs. Gold," Killian says, nodding politely. It's still slow work to talk, but he's getting better at it every day - whether his doctors or self-appointed babysitters want him to or not.

She smiles, raising her eyebrows a fraction of an inch. "I think we can move past that, Killian."

His own smile comes out more like a wince. He supposes there's a level of familiarity that forms between people when one of them cares for your sodding drunk arse. "Aye. Belle, then," he agrees. "What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you'd join me for a cup of tea after I finished with Shade and Bluff today," Belle explains, shifting her weight. "I thought you might enjoy the company."

Killian scratches under his ear, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Truthfully, I don't know if I'm the best company to be had at the moment."

He hardly remembers that night last week but something makes him shy of spending too long in her company. It was a moment of weakness that he allowed to go too far, one he knows he's lucky to have survived. It's not as if he's ungrateful to her or to Will; rather it's his pride that stings at the thought of being seen at such a vulnerable moment. And he knows he's vulnerable right now: broken and unloved, fresh from a self-inflicted attempt on his own life. His walls are slowly rebuilding, fortifying themselves against the wiles of women and all matters of the heart. He's stepped back from his men while he rebuilds, but they at least attribute that to his recent injury. Will Scarlet he can handle, used to the man's inability to comprehend personal space and his brashness.

But Belle's still relatively unknown. Though she's Gold's wife and he's been in their employ for a year already, she does her part with the horses and he sticks to his job and they merely trade polite nothings when their paths cross. He knows her to be a rare hand with the beasts and she can be as kind as her husband cannot.

Her offer isn't uncharacteristic, but they aren't in any way close. Perhaps a month ago such an offer of friendship or a sympathetic ear would not be disagreeable, particularly given his troubles over how to express his feelings towards Emma. But many things have changed in the last month. He's not entirely the same man he was a month ago. He's only just begun to heal, but he knows he's got a long journey ahead of him - and the physical wounds are healing much more quickly than the emotional ones. He doesn't know if Belle would exploit that in some way, if her kindness is a mask that hides a vein of cruelty underneath. He doesn't know if he can trust her with this.

He looks up when she gently touches his arm. "Killian," she says softly, her eyes betraying worry as they search his. "If there's one thing I'm good at, it's listening. And I think you need someone to listen for a while."

He scratches at the spot under his ear again, wishing desperately for someone - _Liam_ \- to tell him what to do, but it's only him and her, and he has to make a decision. "Are these my orders to pack up and put the kettle on then?" he asks, laughing weakly to alleviate the tension.

Belle smiles and steps back, giving him space. "Give me an hour or so to get some work done and then you can put the kettle on."

"Aye, cap'n."

She touches her fingers to her forehead in a mock salute and he chuckles as she slips out into the row.

An hour passes faster than he'd expected - checking the quality of leathers and irons and how many hoof-picks one has in stock does not exactly qualify as _riveting_ \- and he trudges back up to the house. His head starts to ache as he goes about the familiar routine of making tea and while that's not an unfamiliar sensation lately, it's also not a welcome one. He's been more wary of his medication in the last few days, sometimes skipping a dose or two until he can't stand the pain any longer.

Honestly, the fact that no one's yet locked him up in a nice padded room with people to look after him is a miracle in and of itself.

He feels like a gobshite as he tops his mug off and promptly drops a straw into it. There's nigh on twenty people who would shame him half to death for such a travesty, but lucky for him they're across an ocean. There's a knock at the door as he settles both mugs at the kitchen table and he looks up to see Belle letting herself in. "Sorry, Bluff _really_ isn't fond of anyone touching that leg right now," she says, toeing her boots off. "He's being fussy."

"You're alright though?" Killian asks, gesturing for her to sit.

"I had some of your boys helping me with him," she says, sighing gratefully as she sits and cups her hands around the warm mug. "Seems like there's an unwritten rule now about not letting anyone around Bluff without lots of backup."

Killian shrugs. "Aye, well, Smee at the beginning of the year, now me… He's earned his name ten times over this year alone. It's a damn good thing he wins almost every race I put him in or he'd be more trouble than he's worth."

She smiles as he sips his tea through the straw but doesn't say anything. He watches as she adds sugar and milk to hers, though it's at least a respectable amount and not the horrifying quantities that Emma -

Killian sets his mug down with more force than necessary, trying not to grind his teeth in frustration. It's the second time today he's thought of her - fifth if you count the dreams that had kept him in and out of a restless sleep. He doesn't _want_ to think about her, doesn't want to spare a thought on her any longer, _she doesn't love him_.

Belle's eyes flick up to him as his knuckles turn white from gripping the mug handle so tight. "Killian, you're going to break it," she says mildly.

He lets go as if the mug is burning him, dropping his gaze. "Apologies, lass," he murmurs, settling his hand in a fist on his leg instead.

"It's not me you need to apologize to."

Killian looks up sharply, trying to dissect her meaning. Does she mean the mug or does she know something about the fight he and Emma had had? He hasn't breathed a word about it to anyone but he can't say he knows the same of Emma - or rather, he can't say if her family or friends have dragged the information out of her. He's fully aware of how prying they can be, particularly as she had left upset once more.

It stings to know he was the cause of that.

Belle notices his scrutinizing stare. "What is it?" she asks, brow knit in confusion.

He sits back a little; it appears that she meant the mug after all. "It's nothing."

"Killian. I said I was good at listening for a reason."

"And perhaps I have nothing to speak of," he snaps, sucking down another mouthful of tea.

She considers him for a moment. There's a flicker of something that looks like guilt on her face before she schools her expression once more. "You may think you don't," she says slowly, "but matters of the heart tend to eat away at us the most. It's plain as day there's something bothering you."

Killian scoffs. "And who's to say it's a matter of the heart?"

"Because Emma's had the same look that you do on her face every time I've seen her this week."

He looks away. "I don't want to talk about Miss Swan, if it's all the same to you," he says quietly.

It hurts. Thinking about her hurts. Thinking that she's just as miserable as he is hurts - the part of him that loves her still should be pleased that she's unhappy, but he knows he's at fault for her misery. It hurts to realize he can be the cause of such pain. He said miserable things to her, cruel things in the heat of the moment that he knows he shouldn't have. Truthful they may have been, but they were things that could have been discussed calmly, rationally. He'd allowed his temper to get the better of him, allowed his illness to take charge and lash out at the woman he loves.

Driving her away from him, possibly forever.

Belle reaches over and covers one hand with hers. "Okay," she says softly. "Just... You should. Eventually. Really, you should talk to _her_, but you need to talk to _someone_. You've been through a trauma, Killian, and letting it fester inside without release is only going to make everything that much worse. I have a friend -"

He yanks his hand away angrily, wincing as he forgets himself and clenches his jaw. "I've been to enough bloody therapists in my life, thank you very much."

Belle fixes him with another patient look, her raised eyebrows betraying her annoyance. "And clearly they've done you a lot of good, Mr. Jones, your temper isn't a problem in the least." Killian looks away again at that. "Her name's Trinity Green," Belle continues, her tone gentler. "She goes by Tink. She's a counselor. She's good. She won't let you walk over her or frighten her when you get into one of your snits. I think you'd get on quite well, actually."

He chuckles, an unwitting smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "One of my snits?" he repeats, glancing back at her with a raised brow.

Belle eyes him playfully. "I figured it was nicer than saying 'childish temper tantrum'." Killian laughs at that and she grins. "There, that's better, isn't it?"

"Aye, and I deserved that, missus," he tells her.

"Anytime you need someone to take the piss out on you, mate," she says, lifting her mug in a mock toast.

He chuckles at her crassness. "I get it enough from Scarlet, believe me. And I wouldn't expect such language from you."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm from Oz, you haven't heard even a _bit _of what normally runs through my head."

Killian smiles. "We'll have to trade expat stories one of these days. I'd be interested in knowing how a lass from Down Under finds herself in a small town in Maine, and married to a Scot no less."

"And I know I am not the only one curious as to how the famous Killian Jones wound up in this small corner of the world," Belle counters. "But you have your reasons for all the secrecy, I suppose."

"Not entirely, more to infuriate the press than anything else," he says, making her laugh. "But there are reasons enough. Two of them are headed to Belmont with Scarlet and a few of the men next week."

Belle raises her eyebrows in interest. "Really?"

"Aye, there's a baby race next week, entered one of Malcolm's and one of Regina's. Get their feet wet, see how they hold up against real competition. I was rather looking forward to seeing the results myself, but alas." Killian shrugs. "Can't seem to get the lads to agree on letting me out of their sight for a few days. Scarlet can handle it."

The full trip would have been about ten days, the baby race being his main draw to scout the contenders for the next Derby, but he'd scheduled a few other races for some of his older charges as well. He'd been looking forward to it - not the trailering of four horses to and from Long Island bit, but because he hadn't told Emma when he'd be returning. His original plan had been to surprise her on her birthday, sweep her off her feet with a night of wining and dining and locking them both away in his bedroom at the end of the night.

He shoves those thoughts away; there's no use dwelling on plans that will never come to fruition. They sit quietly for a few minutes, breaking the silence every so often with sips of tea or the clinking of their mugs against the table. Belle traces the rim of her mug with a finger. "How's Henry doing?" she asks finally, her voice soft as she watches her nail glide along the rim.

Killian frowns a little, unsure of this topic change. "Recovering as expected, as far as I know. Regina called the other day, he's - well, she's not calling it grounded, but effectively it's as such. Frankly I don't know if or when he'll be back here, between the fright he must have had and Regina being, well, Regina."

"Good," Belle says. Her voice sounds a bit choked and Killian's frown deepens. She continues as if she didn't hear anything else he'd said. "That's… It's good he's getting better."

She swipes at her eyes and his confusion only mounts further. "Belle, lass, what -"

"I'm sorry, I didn't know how else to bring this up. I just needed to tell someone," she says in a rush. She shakes her head. "I didn't think - I feel like if I had put it together sooner or said something this could have all been avoided."

It's Killian's turn to reach for her. "Belle, what are you talking about?" he asks.

"Robert," she says. It takes Killian a moment to recall that that's Gold's given name. He only ever refers to his employer as Mr. Gold or just his surname. "Neal said something to me earlier this summer about Robert and Henry. Robert was going to talk to his friends in the Jockey Club for Henry, get him an edge up on other applicants for school. Neal was worried about the influence Robert could have. He knows how Henry can be when he gets an idea about something."

Killian's face hardens the second he pieces together what she's saying.

Emma was right.

She hadn't known about Gold's involvement, obviously, but she'd been right about everything else. Henry's withdrawn attitude from her, his obsession with running, even the way he'd avoid being around Killian for too long. And now Henry's unusually slow reflexes during the accident are explained as well - if the lad had been at full strength, had his wits about him, he probably would have stood a better chance at dodging Bluff's kick. Killian's suddenly reminded of the few times he'd seen Henry and Gold speaking around the farm, how abruptly conversation would end if he or one of his men came too near. Gold had been plotting this under all of their noses the whole time, letting Henry believe he could go to jockey school and giving him incentive to put himself in danger for it. "_Is cúl tóna cruthanta é_," Killian mutters to himself before directing his next words to Belle. "As much warning as you could have given, lass, there's no way you could have known how far Henry would take it. None of us could. Even Emma didn't put it together until the last minute."

"Logically, I know that. But I can't help but wonder what if," Belle says miserably.

"He was already toeing the line," he counters. "I caught him smoking one afternoon. I know his running nonsense didn't pick up any speed for a bit after that, and I know Gold would have had to have hatched this scheme while Henry was here. Given how little time your husband spent here this summer, I can tell you with some ease that he didn't push Henry down that dark path."

Belle nods, rubbing her nose a little. "Just encouraged him," she says, her voice thick.

"Aye," Killian agrees darkly. "And I daresay once Regina finds that out, we'll all want to stay far from that battleground."

Belle rests her face in her hands, shoulders heaving with a sigh. "I know how Regina can be, and I know how Robert can be. The two of them facing off, _again_… that's what worries me."

Killian hadn't paid too much attention to Neal's trial earlier in the year. He'd had enough going on with taking over the farm and trying to change over Humbert's processes to his own. He does remember that the justice system had been unusually swift, from the arrest to the trial itself to the sentencing, something about wanting to head off the media storm before it got too big. Small town, personal vendettas, big names and millions of dollars attached? It was a journalist's dream story.

(Personally, Killian suspects Gold - or rather, his money - had a hand in the swiftness of it all, despite the estrangement between father and son. He has no qualms believing Gold greased the wheels with a big-shot lawyer, one who somehow also got Neal's sentence down to only five years. Drugging horses and calling a hit on someone deserves a far longer sentence in his opinion. But Killian knows better than to voice those opinions aloud.)

But he does remember hearing about Regina's testimonies and the rifts that had widened between her and Gold as a result. She'd known Neal both personally and professionally, something both the prosecution and defense had tried to utilize to their best advantage. And Killian knew she'd been upset enough about Humbert's murder to stick to that _I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth_ mantra like glue, no matter who was doing the cross-examination.

Regina and the truth were a dangerous combination under the right circumstances. And as a result, what little love there was between her and Gold had dwindled to embers.

Killian scrubs his face with a sigh. "It's a pickle," he says finally.

Belle smiles wanly. He doesn't ask the question that's at the tip of his tongue: what's she going to do about all of this? He knows she's in a precarious position and doesn't wish to distress her further. Likely she doesn't have the faintest idea of what to do. "All that matters is that Henry's getting help and recovering," she says wistfully.

"Indeed."

After another minute of quiet, she pats the table and stands. "Well… I should probably get out of your hair. I imagine I'm keeping you from getting into all sorts of trouble."

"Some would claim this is an opportunity to find more of it," Killian says, smirking a little.

Belle stares for a moment, then starts to laugh. "Oh, right, your supposed rakish history. In that case, it's a surprise Robert hasn't come storming the farm already."

He stands, collecting both of their mugs to be washed. "No supposed about it, missus. Some of those stories may be slightly exaggerated, but I fully admit to one or two being quite truthful."

She rolls her eyes. "Most men wouldn't brag about such things."

"I'm not most men."

"I'm aware, Mr. Jones."

Killian smiles. "Rest assured, Mrs. Gold, as lovely as you are, I am far more intimidated by your husband than anything else."

There's a knowing look in her eyes when she smiles at him. "Yes, I'm sure it's just Robert that keeps you from such a fruitless pursuit." Killian's brows come together in a frown as he tries to figure out how many double-meanings are in that statement. Belle grabs a pen and writes something down on the back of an advert. "Here, this is Tink's information. I'm not forcing you to make an appointment, I'm just giving you the option. And Killian," she says, looking up at him again, "talk to Emma. I mean it."

Killian looks away. "I'll - I'll consider it, does that satisfy you?"

He hears her sigh. "Very well. Just - when you do?" He scoffs at the _when_, but doesn't comment. She ignores him and instead says, "Tell her to read that letter."

Killian looks at her sharply as she goes to put her boots back on. "What letter?"

Belle wrestles her boots back on, her voice straining as she says, "Not my place to say, but she'll know what you mean."

He raises an eyebrow. Knowing her, Emma will not only know what he's talking about, but be very angry that he's even bringing it up. If he doesn't know, it's because she didn't tell him. And if she didn't tell him, it's for what she perceives to be a good reason. She likes her secrets, his Swan. His heart aches after that thought. _She's not mine any longer._

With a sigh, Belle straightens and stamps her feet a few times to adjust her boots the rest of the way. She smiles at him as she opens the door. "Thanks for the tea and the chat."

Killian nods as she leaves. He certainly has a lot to consider.

* * *

Returning to the Downs is more difficult than he expected.

The looks, the whispers, the sympathetic conversations, all of that he has little trouble dealing with. Most people are surprised he's back so soon, that the doctors cleared him for work - the truth is that he's absolutely _not_ been cleared for work but if he lounges about the Horn one more day he's going to go 'round the bend. With Scarlet down in New York and several of the men with him, Killian's got Smee in charge of things on the farm for dayturn. There's enough bodies around the track - and enough people who likely suspect that Killian Jones should be _persona non grata_ number one in the shedrow - to rope into helping him if need be.

He's loathe to admit it, but he does need quite a bit of help. The swelling has gone down, but his arm isn't quite as cooperative as it used to be; some days he's fine, but some days there's a tremor that shakes his whole hand, making holding anything a useless exercise. If a horse spooks on him again - and one will, he's as sure of that as he is of his own name - he's not sure if he'll be able to bring it to all fours again.

Most people are understanding. He doesn't have to ask even once for the grooms or hot-walkers to help him out a little more.

They like to take care of their own here, Killian's realizing. He's more startled to realize that he likes that.

It's not until his third day back that he sees her. He's not been actively searching her out, but he's not kept idle either; Belle's right, he's decided. It's probably better to talk to Emma and get it over with quickly, like ripping off a bandage. So he keeps his wis about him. A quick glance around his surroundings, perhaps lingering longer than he might have otherwise in places he knows she frequents. She's either not at work or just very elusive because when he does see her again it takes him completely by surprise. He's on his way up to confer with Anna about a jockey replacement when it happens.

The first thing he notices is her hair: where once it fell almost to the curve of her arse, it's now perhaps fifteen centimeters shorter. The wind picks it up in golden ribbons, twirling in her wake as she takes long strides up to the grandstand. Emma's bundled up against the morning chill, bearing coffee in one gloved hand; huge sunglasses cover her face.

She doesn't see him.

He tries to tell himself it doesn't hurt, it doesn't _matter._

_She doesn't love him._

He repeats that to himself throughout the day - it doesn't hurt, it doesn't matter - but he still has hope as the day winds down and the track empties out. Try as he might, he doesn't hear her voice in the stables at the end of the day. David he hears plenty, what with the Point stabling on the next row over. Killian tries not to think much about it; Emma rarely came down to the stables before they started seeing one another, it makes sense that she'd break the habit now that things were over between them.

Still, it's hard to keep up his newly found resolve to take Belle's advice when one party is exceedingly difficult to get ahold of.

As the days pass and he refuses to ask for David's assistance, Killian's starting to believe he'll have to physically chase her down in order to speak with her. It's not an option he wants to resort to, but she's very good at evading him; it's now to the point where he's starting to wonder if she knows something. She's quick to arrive at work each morning; Emma then leaves almost every day with Ruby or Elsa. (It's the morning habit that makes him suspicious: 'quick' is not an adjective he would use to describe Emma Swan before noon.)

He's walking to his truck on Thursday when he hears a scuffle and a familiar curse, followed by the sound of dropped keys. He freezes; he knows that tone, heard it a hundred times this summer. He turns, his heart pounding in his throat. "Miss Swan," Killian says, clearing his throat.

Emma looks up, her expression very much like a deer caught in the headlights. He almost knows the feeling. She straightens slowly, keys gripped tight in her hands. "Jones," she replies, her tone as stiff as her posture.

The use of his surname stings, but perhaps no more than his return to a proper title. "There's no need -"

"There is."

Killian takes a step back, giving her already considerable space a bit more breathing room. Her walls are sky-high again and twice as thick; he knows when his work is cut out for him. He exhales slowly, removing his Stetson and holding it with contrite. "Fine. Miss Swan, if you don't mind, I think we should discuss something."

_Layer it on thicker, why don't you?_ he scolds himself, fiddling with the brim of his hat. She doesn't move, but even he's rolling his eyes at himself. "I think we've both said enough," Emma tells him cautiously.

He nods briefly, looking down. "Aye, we did. But I -"

She's shaking her head. "Jones, I don't have time for this," she says, taking small steps towards her Bug. "I'm late as it is, and quite frankly I'm not ready for this conversation - _any_ conversation - about what happened between us. Not right now."

"When, then?" Killian asks.

"I don't know. Just give me some space, okay?"

She sounds frustrated and he understands the sentiment. His jaw aches as he grinds his teeth, a slight tremor returning in his arm as he clenches his fist. He's not entirely prepared for this either, but at least he's _trying_ and she's bloody well running off again. Almost instantly, he feels shame for the thought: this is the kind of thinking that brought them to their current predicament. "Swan -"

"Good_bye_, Jones."

"The letter!" he calls after her retreating back. That brings her to a halt. He smiles grimly to himself; he hates dangling this in front of her like a carrot to keep her near, but if she takes nothing else away from this encounter it should be this. "You need to read that letter."

Emma whirls, her hair fanning around her in a way that makes his chest ache with memories of running his fingers through her silky locks. Her expression could be classified as murderous. "The _what_?" she hisses, stalking towards him.

Killian shrugs. "Passing along a message, Swan, that's all."

Her eyes flash dangerously. "You've been talking to Belle."

"Aye, her husband employs me. We chat quite frequently these days."

Emma doesn't say anything, only glares at him. He tries to remain nonchalant about the entire thing. She looks entirely prepared to claw his eyes out and that _should_ unnerve him, but it has rather the opposite effect. The urge to pull her body flush against his, encourage her wrath into more _productive _activities, is strong. He always did love her in a temper, even if her ire was sometimes directed towards him.

The staring contest ends abruptly with her turning heel on him once more. She says nothing else as she storms back to her vehicle. "Swan!" Killian calls. She doesn't stop this time, not even to the defeated way he tells her, "Happy birthday."

His shoulders slump as she opens the car door and slams it shut behind her, showing no signs of acknowledgement whatsoever. He deserves that. Killian slips his hat back onto his head as she starts the car; he can see from here that she's deliberately not looking towards him as she backs out of her space. It hurts, but he understands. "I'm sorry, Emma," he says softly, watching as she drives away.

* * *

**I'm hopeful that the next chapter will come more quickly, but again I just ask for patience as my personal life settles and the holiday season just around the corner. Much love!**


	20. October 25 - November 6

Emma clicks her tongue as she unlatches the door and slips into the stall quietly. She smiles as Princess headbutts her in the chest affectionately, then noses her jeans curiously; Emma reaches into her pocket and pulls out a carrot. "Caught me," she says, stroking the horse's neck as the carrot is delicately devoured.

She runs her hand down Princess' side; her pregnancy is only just becoming noticeable. Dr. Lucas had finally called it time to stop riding for exercise, but walking her around and letting her out to pasture for exercise is still mandatory. Emma smiles when she runs her hand down Princess' flank, feeling a little movement from the foal; no big kicks just yet, but it's in there. She still worries, but David and Dr. Lucas are hopeful for a healthy delivery. Emma slides the lead line off her shoulder and clips it to Princess' bridle, clicking her tongue again as she leads Princess out of the stall. "Come on, girl, let's go for a stroll."

Usually she likes this time of year. She likes the hint of winter to come, the crunch of leaves under her boots. She likes the misty sunsets and seeing her breath in the air. She's never been fond of her birthday, but she likes autumn and the way the world turns red and orange and yellow like a phoenix before extinguishing itself into a sleepy winter.

They'd kept her birthday quiet this year, per her request. No real presents, but Mary Margaret had surprised her with a spa trip a few weekends before and the fact that she'd tried to refuse letting Emma pay for anything made her think it was supposed to be a gift. They'd gotten their hair done, facials, and massages; when her sister-in-law was still in the back having her make-up retouched, Emma had strong-armed the girl at the register into letting her pay for Mary Margaret's prenatal massage.

Emma hadn't even wanted a cake, but Leo hadn't really understood why she didn't feel like celebrating. She'd eventually relented, helping Mary Margaret to make cupcakes. Emma let Leo help her blow out some candles - _no singing_.

But she hadn't been in a very festive mood the other day. Running into Killian that afternoon hadn't helped - it made her remember his teasing hints about some kind of surprise he'd been planning for her.

Neither Neal nor Walsh had ever made much of an effort to really surprise her for her birthday. Neal had never been the best at gifts and the fact that Walsh even remembered she _had_ a birthday had been a miracle in and of itself.

Thinking of Neal now, Emma sighs, running her hand over her back pocket where the letter she's been avoiding for three months is stuffed. The thought of opening still makes her want to throw up, but Killian - or rather, Belle speaking through Killian - thinks it's important. Emma's been doing a lot of running lately.

It's kind of exhausting.

Retrieving the letter from under the pile of magazines and papers hadn't caused too much of a panic attack - she'd itched a little when she picked the envelope up, but the expected blind rush of panic had never come - so she figures at this point she might as well get it over with. For good or for bad, there's not too much left that can make her feel worse than she's already made herself feel recently - even a seemingly random letter from her imprisoned ex-boyfriend.

Princess nudges her shoulder, whickering, and Emma absently reaches up to pat the horse's nose. "I know. I'm dragging my feet. I just don't know what he could possibly want to say to me after all this time."

They walk in a couple of long loops around the barns, taking an easy pace while Emma thinks and screws up her courage. She feels ridiculous - she's had three months to prepare for this, after all - but she just doesn't know what to expect. She doesn't know how he knew she was back in town - well, scratch that. She has a pretty good guess as to how he knew she was home.

He started all of this, after all.

They finish three complete loops of the barn area before Emma walks Princess over to a paddock; she unlatches the gate and leads her in, unclipping the line from her bridle. Emma latches the gate behind her and hops up onto the fence, taking both the letter and her phone out of her pockets. She turns the flashlight on and just stares at the envelope for a while. She tries to imagine Neal writing this, what could have possibly gone through his head - God, what does he even _look_ like now? Had he kept his hair longer - just a little - or finally gave in and gotten it cut? Did he have to wear one of those neon-orange jumpsuits now? Had his goatee ever grown in or did he finally give up on facial hair? Did they even let prisoners shave, or were razors like that contraband? Shaking her head, she realizes she's just avoiding this further, dragging it out and making it worse for herself. _Just fucking do it, Swan_, she tells herself angrily, ripping the envelope open.

It's short enough, just the one page with a little on the back. Neal's handwriting hasn't changed since high school, a little messy but small and legible. Emma takes a deep breath and begins to read.

_Emma,_

_So this is weird. It's weird, right? Me writing to you from prison - me writing to you at all after everything that happened. Part of me wonders how long it'll take before you even stop being mad at me long enough to read this, or if you'll even read it at all. I'd understand if you just ripped this up and threw it away without reading it, but if you did that then I guess it's pointless to even try and say it's okay you did it. You wouldn't know anyway._

_I hope you're reading this. I hope you're okay - Belle says you look good, though she didn't know you before you left. I hope it's okay I asked about you, but she said she'd met you and I got curious. I've only seen my father a few times, he seems uncomfortable whenever he comes down. Understandable - __I'm_ _uncomfortable being here. He's talked about Henry a lot, though, and it's kind of weird._

_Here's the part where I'm pretty sure you're going to throw this away. I need to talk to you about something in person. I put you on my visitor list, so you just kind of show up on visiting days and check in and they tell me if someone's here to see me. I'd write it down but I don't really trust that they're not reading the mail as it gets sent out - __it's not something illegal,_ _Ems, don't frown at me like that. But it's sensitive and I think you'd rather hear it from me than read it. It's about Henry and I know that's kind of a dick move to dangle the kid in front of you like a carrot but I'm being entirely serious when I say it's important._

_But that's if you're even reading this._

_If you got this far, thanks. I know I probably don't deserve that much, but I hope if we talk about this Henry thing it's kind of a step in the right direction for me. Mending bridges or paving my way to heaven or whatever._

_Yeah, I've been going to some spiritual healing meetings. There's not much else to do here, you can make fun of me for it later._

_I hope I see you soon._

_Take care,_

_Neal_

Emma's not sure how long she sits there on the fence, staring at the blank bottom of the back of the page. Long enough for her butt to go numb from the angle the post is digging in, but that could be minutes or hours. Long enough that her phone chirps at her that the battery is dying from having the flashlight on for no reason. She turns that off and tucks her phone away, crumpling the letter in one hand as she hunches over. "Jesus Christ, Neal…" she mutters, wishing she could summon some kind of heat or hurt over it all, wishing she could feeling _something_.

Instead, she just feels empty.

-/-

The second Will found out about it, he practically bundled Killian off to Tink's office himself. "You'll not be going to the track today, we'll take care of things. Go get your head checked out, mate, maybe finally trade it in for sommat that works, eh?"

It took all of Killian's willpower not to punch his assistant square in the jaw. "Breathe a word about this to anyone and you're a dead man, got it?"

Will knew him well enough to roll his eyes. "Aye, sir, you're in hospital getting a checkup or some other nonsense."

Which led Killian to his current location, a small office space in Thomaston on Thursday. He shifts in his seat, tapping his fingers against his leg as he takes in the room. It's standard fare, cream walls, lots of windows, old magazines laying about on tables for one's perusal. There's an absurd number of plants in the waiting room as well and he's fairly sure most, if not all, of them are real. This Tink woman must truly love her greenery if she's willing to put this much time and money into tending them.

"Mr. Jones?" Killian looks up at the receptionist's question. She smiles. "Ms. Green will see you now."

He follows the receptionist down the hall to an open door. She waves him in and Killian feels rather like he's been thrown to the lions when she closes the door behind him. Someone clears their throat. Killian looks in their direction and pauses, taking her in. Even after going through his fair share of therapists over the last two decades, Ms. Green - _Tink_ \- is not at all what he expects.

"The man of the hour," she greets him, her accent Australian and her smile wide and welcoming as she shakes his hand. "Call me Tink, everyone does. Shall I call you Killian or do we have to be stuffy and stick to Mr. Jones? Or is there something else you prefer?"

She's petite, with a mass of curling blonde hair she's tamed with a sequined green scarf. There's a couple of pens tucked into the scarf as well. Her jewelry is gold, most of it jangles and clinks together when she walks. Her clothes wouldn't be out of place at a Stevie Nicks concert. "Killian will do," he says after a moment, blinking to get himself out of staring at her. There's something familiar about her that he can't place. "You're a bit mad, aren't you?"

Tink gives him a simpering smile. "I like to put people off their game. It leads to all sorts of interesting things," she explains, gesturing for him to sit in one of the plush chairs. "You're a bit of a leprechaun, then?"

"From Ireland, yes," Killian says, sitting. He feels wary around her; he's unsure if it's because she wants him to be or if it's something else entirely. She sits across from him in a flourish of jangling jewelry and cloth. "You're a bit of a kangaroo," he says, trying to jab back, feeling that perhaps if he turned the tables on her he'd feel more comfortable.

She gasps, her hand flying to her throat as her bracelets make a racket. "Tell me you don't speak to Belle that way, poor lass has enough going on." It takes him a moment to register that she's teasing him; the glint in her eye gives it away. She laughs. "Sorry, Killian, it's like I said. I like to put people off their game. So what brought you here?"

Killian considers her, brows knit in contemplation. She's definitely an odd one. "To the States or to this particular room?"

Tink flaps her hand. "Either, whatever you want to talk about. Your time, your dime."

He sits back. He doesn't go shouting his story to just any Jim or Patrick on the street and there's the fact that something about this woman - other than her outward eccentricity - bothers him to some extent. But he supposes he is paying this woman to keep her silence. And he's supposed to ease his burden or some such nonsense. "I'll show you mine, you show me yours."

Tink raises an eyebrow, pulling a pen from her hair as she reaches for a notepad on the table next to her chair. "Bit intimate, mate."

"Expats, we stick together, yeah?"

It's her turn to regard him, her eyes narrowed as she scrutinizes him from top to toes. She taps the pen against her knee slowly as she thinks. "Alright then. Tit for tat. How'd an Irish boy find himself in America?"

"Why does anyone come to America, lass? Money," Killian says simply, flashing his teeth in his most charming smile - or, rather, the best he can do with the metalwork still in his mouth.

"Liar."

He blinks, the grin falling away. Tink's still studying him carefully, watching him with narrowed eyes. One corner of her mouth pulls up. She uncrosses her legs, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. "I'm very good at what I do, Mr. Jones. Let's not waste our time with lies, shall we? I'll be honest with you if you do me the same courtesy."

It's her eyes that make it click finally. Emma. Tink reminds him of Emma - blonde hair, green-hazel eyes, quick to call out his bullshit. Tink's frowning now, concern etched on her face. "Killian, what is it?"

He opens his mouth - another lie on the tip of his tongue, the urge to get up and leave the room growing ever stronger - but nothing comes out.

He wonders if this is some sort of twisted joke to Belle. He believed the woman to be unable to commit such an unkindness, but perhaps he was wrong. "I'd rather not discuss it right now," he says finally, quietly, staring at the clenched fist that rests on his knee.

He hears the pen scratching on the notepad, wonders what she might be writing down already. _Anger issues, emotionally walled off, uses his looks and charms to get what he wants_. He's heard such things before. "Money isn't entirely a lie," he continues softly. "Opportunity wasn't what I wanted it to be back…" _Home_ doesn't sound right. Ireland hasn't been home in a long time - truly, even before he left it. He loves the island of his birth, but it's not _home_. Home, to him, has always involved a family of sorts. After Mam and Da died, home was Liam. Then home was Liam and Milah.

Home is something he's been without for a long time. He thought he'd found it again with - with Emma. But perhaps he'd been mistaken.

"I wanted a change of pace," he says finally, looking up. "I wanted that American dream, make something of myself, pull myself up by me own bootstraps, all that nonsense."

Tink watches him still, her chin propped up on her hand. "Doesn't make much sense to make something of yourself without a trade."

Killian frowns slightly. "I train Thoroughbreds, lass, surely Belle's said as much."

Tink's eyes sparkle with amusement. "She may have said something about business with her husband, but I make it a point not to discuss particulars about potential patients. I like to find things out for myself. So, the Irish boy follows the footsteps of his forefathers to the land of opportunity, alone, to what end?"

"I never said I came alone."

"Oh? You're not married, I can see as much. Came here with family? Divorced?"

Killian opens and closes his mouth again without saying a word. He sees what she's trying to do, get him to spill all the dirty details so she can pick him apart and figure out what's wrong with him. "You said tit for tat, love," he says instead. "How'd you meet Belle?"

Tink raises an eyebrow; he suspects she sees through his tactic as well. "Belle and I are old schoolmates," she tells him. "Primary and secondary, bosom buddies, figured why the hell not? We'd go for uni together as well. We drove our parents crazy on that when we decided to study in America and then stay on after graduation. Not a clue if they've quite forgiven us yet, but that's parents for you."

Killian makes a noncommittal noise. He wouldn't know. Tink twirls the pen between her fingers. "She's my best mate, through and through, even if she does drive me mad with her career choices - she's got three bloody post-grad degrees in all this behavior therapy and sciences and what does she do with it? Wastes it all fixing her husband's bloody horses."

His knuckles hurt from clenching his fist so tight. "She's the best horse rehab specialist I've ever worked with, lass, so I'd tread carefully. I have worked with many a specialist in my life. Most of them are expensive, highly exclusive, and bloody terrible at their job. Biggest mistake Robert Gold ever made was putting Pride of War down instead of turning Belle loose on him. She could have saved that ruddy horse, if only to put him to stud and earn Gold more money."

Tink's looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and something he can't quite put his finger on. "Yeah, she could have," she says after a long moment. "She told me about that incident."

"Bloody ridiculous, the whole thing," he mutters, resting his chin on his palm, his mind drifting back to that rainy, miserable day in May. "Tore me up to see a good horse put down, he still had a few years of purses to win. And Swan, bloody hell she was a mess over it, found her after she'd had a bit of a cry in the stables."

"Who's Swan?" Tink asks.

He hears the pen scratching at the notepad again. Thinking about Emma feels like a weight rests in his chest, but it's better than the gaping wound that had been there a few weeks before. Idly, he wonders how they veered in this direction already, how Emma's been touched upon twice already - if that's a good thing or not. "I don't want to talk about her," he says quietly.

"You already are," Tink says, pointing her pen at him.

Vexation flares under his collarbone. He huffs. "That doesn't mean I want to delve further into it."

She tilts her head; her expression is mild but her eyes are curiously taking in everything, as if the words he's not saying are written somewhere and she's going to find them. "You know, the things we try to avoid most usually have a way of catching us off guard when we least expect it - or when we least want them to. Is that what you want?"

There's a small smile threatening to come out and Killian's not entirely sure he's hid it well enough. That sums up his relationship with Emma fairly well - she's done nothing but catch him off guard from the beginning. "Wouldn't be here if it was, would I?" he asks. He takes a deep breath. "I'll get to her. Eventually. I just - give a man time, yeah?"

Tink smiles and he can't read it; it's a mix of emotions, or maybe it's his own that are clouding his judgement. "Rest assured, Killian - if it's time you need, I've got plenty of that."

-/-

"Okay, good run everyone," Emma says into the headsets. By some miracle of the racing gods they've finished on time; she knows there would have been hell to pay from mutuels if they'd gone over somehow. The finals for the Breeder's Cup aren't _quite_ the payout as the Derby is, but inquiries or objections would have distracted the betters.

It's not her department, but someone from down the hall would have found ways to take it out on her staff and she doesn't feel like bookending her racing season with boxing matches.

"Cameras, remember we're coming in on Wednesday to break everything down and store it for the winter," she says as Ruby and Elsa start shutdown. "I'll even be nice and give you until noon to get here."

"Thanks, Emma," Sean says sarcastically over the set, and she chuckles before turning off her set.

Control room teardown is significantly less time-consuming. Emma figures she can come in and do the final archiving on Wednesday morning; she can let it run while she and the guys run around the towers and tuck everything into storage. Mostly they just have to make sure all the other equipment is off and covered in dust jackets. "Alright, ladies, we'll be in touch. We have all the time in the world to go out and show Storybrooke how to have fun," Ruby says with a wink. Victor, standing in the doorway waiting, rolls his eyes affectionately behind her back.

"See you around, Ruby," Emma says, grinning.

Ruby twiddles her fingers in a wave before she and Victor leave. Elsa's packing away her tea box in her purse when they hear hurried footsteps coming down the hall. "Elsa!"

Anna bursts through the door, her cheeks flushed and her braids coming apart. "There you are, whew! I thought I'd missed you somehow," she says, panting and doubled over with her hands on her knees.

Emma glances at Elsa, who was watching her sister with one raised eyebrow. "Pray tell, sister dear," she says dryly, "how you might have missed me when you're sprinting all over the earth?"

Anna flaps her hand at the question. "We're gonna be late, we have to get going!"

"Late for what?" Emma asks as Elsa sighs.

"Kristoff knows we were probably going to miss this game, there's no way we can get to Boston by seven," she says, hefting her purse over her shoulder. "We'll get three more games before he's on the road again, it'll be fine." Anna sighs - rather dramatically, in Emma's opinion. Elsa tries to hide a smile, sharing a glance with Emma. "I swear you're more superstitious than he is some days."

Emma ushers them both out into the hall, flicking off the lights and locking the door behind them while Anna grumbles the whole time. "This is just the longest he'll be home until like, February, and no I'm not counting All-Star week because he might get picked for that and he'll be unsupervised in Columbus for _days_ and what if he meets some farm girl who also happens to be great at hockey and they'll want to have talented hockey babies together and he'll change his mind about his free agency and he goes to the _Blue Jackets_ of all teams and -"

Anna doesn't so much as stop talking as she just runs out of air. Emma has no idea of about half of the words she's saying, though she does remember the bit of trouble about Kristoff's contract with the Bruins ending. "Anna, you're being ridiculous," Elsa says.

Anna sighs, flicking a braid over her shoulder as Emma presses the button for the elevator. "I know. I mean, I _think_ Columbus is an actual city, so maybe he wouldn't meet a farm girl after all. Just some nice Midwestern city girl who'll feed him nothing but meat and potatoes and ruin his nutrition plan because she doesn't know what a vegetable is."

"Anna."

"I think potatoes are vegetables," Emma says carefully, unsure if she has a place in the conversation.

"Starch," Anna says, almost mechanically. "Sorry, Emma, I didn't mean to just babble on about my problems. How are you doing?"

Emma shrugs. The end of the season and all of the chaos that brings with it has been serving her well as a distraction; she's had a couple of meetings with the commission about budgets and equipment for next season, she's been getting better about avoiding Killian and not being so obvious about it. She even welcomed the extra headache of making and scheduling promos for the Breeder's Cup simulcast, as long as it meant she didn't have to think about the possibility of visiting Neal. In prison.

It's been a very long week since she read that letter. It's a little upsetting to realize she might have officially run out of things to distract herself from thinking about it.

"Managing," she says finally. "I did get a call this week from a buddy of mine in the New York circuit, he wants me to sub in at Aqueduct for a few weeks after the new year."

"Oh, that's nice," Anna says. "You worked there before here, right?"

Emma nods. "Did some time at the Florida tracks, too."

Florida makes her think of Neal and she tries her best not to scowl. She'd gone to Florida after that first year in New York just to see if she'd been right to want it that badly, to have that dream of starting a life in the warmth and sunshine. She'd gone straight to Tallahassee, where they had Quarter Horse races; it wasn't the same, she'd found, watching the short sprints over and over again. Coming to Quarter Horses after years of watching Thoroughbreds, Emma knew after just a few weeks that she prefered to watch the horses fly around the turns.

She'd wandered a bit, crisscrossing the state to see what else it had to offer; eventually she'd wound up in Tampa. Tampa had beaches, sunshine, horses - everything she'd thought she wanted when she and Neal had disagreed about where to start their future in Florida.

She'd been right. She'd been right to want it. It just...

It just hadn't been _home_. She didn't feel any special connection to the city; she loved it, but it could be left behind. So she did, heading back up to the New York circuit. New York hadn't been home either, but it was closer to her brother, to Henry. She saw David and Mary Margaret when they traveled down for races of their own. It hadn't been home, but it had been enough.

It hurts now to think that Neal had said something else about home once, something that had stuck with her for a long time.

_Home is a place that, when you leave, you just miss it_.

She's come close a few times. Coming back to Storybrooke has made her realize that she missed it more than she'd realized. But there's still something missing, something she's still looking for.

Killian's face comes to mind and Emma pushes it away. She has enough to think about.

"Emma?"

She blinks. Anna and Elsa are standing in the elevator, looking at her with concern. "Sorry, spaced out," she says, stepping in. "Did you say something?"

"I was just asking if you wanted to spend a weekend with us in Boston," Anna says as the door closes. "There's a couple of home games in a row in two weeks - you could meet Kristoff finally. Oh! You could meet a couple of the guys, actually, I think you'd like them, they're all sweethearts."

There's something too innocent in Anna's voice, something that make Emma pause. When she glances at Anna, her expression is just a bit too earnest. With how complicated everything is right now, the _last _thing she needs is to screw up her dating life even more. She knows she should just get right back up on the horse, but the fight between her and Killian is too fresh. Not to mention she's seen the way Anna has to juggle her relationship with their jobs and the distance; Emma's not so sure she'd handle it as well as Anna does. "Listen, Anna," she begins, but Elsa jumps in.

"Most of them are married, she's not trying to set you up," Elsa clarifies, shooting her sister a look that says _don't help_. "Isn't that right, Anna?"

The exasperated sigh says differently, but Anna nods as they get off on the first floor. "_Fine_. Though don't say I didn't offer, you might change your mind when you get a look at their legs in those athletic shorts -"

"_Anna_."

Emma shoots Elsa a grateful smile. She knows Anna's just trying to be helpful, she does. Get back in the saddle, putting herself out there - it's healthy. It's normal.

Emma's just - she's not -

Is there a word for the feeling when she's pretty sure she's broken up with her last bo-_partner, _but she's not sure if she's ever going to stop having feelings for him? Even though it's her fault it's over? Emma's sure it's something like 'pathetic', but she'll have to check later.

There's a crowd of people in the lobby they have to weave through to get to the doors. Anna uses it to her advantage, dodging the swipe Elsa takes at her by ducking between a couple of people. Despite herself, Emma starts to giggle as she fights her way through the crowd to catch up. "I think I can spare a weekend. But seriously, no dates. I'm definitely not ready for that."

"Okay. But yay, oh my gosh! Boston's so much fun, we'll have to plan some stuff to do during the day," Anna says, then starts to ramble off a list of sights to see and things to do as they make their way to the parking lot.

Elsa winks as she gently bundles her sister towards their car; Anna's still talking as Emma gets into her own car. Belatedly, she waves and Emma returns the gesture before throwing the Bug into gear.

Her thoughts drift back to the letter as she drives back to the Point, as much as she'd rather not focus on it. She'd drifted through several emotions over the last week in the few moments she'd allowed herself to think about it. She supposes now that work is over for the season she'll have fewer distractions from thinking about it. The fact that he wants to meet after everything that had happened is both laughable and infuriating. The fact that she's seriously considering it is both frustrating and nauseating.

The fact that her sister-in-law can see right through her is the most infuriating of all.

Emma's quiet as she helps Mary Margaret set the table and finish getting dinner ready. She hardly pays attention as David and Mary Margaret talk business - something about upcoming travel, Emma doesn't listen in. She finds it much simpler to focus on Leo and making sure his food stays on his plate. Leo doesn't really care if she gives him one or two-word answers, he's too absorbed in retelling what he and Roland did at the track all afternoon.

It's not until after dinner has been cleaned up that Mary Margaret says anything about how withdrawn Emma has been all evening. "Emma, something tells me you're not exactly engrossed in these lesson plans," Mary Margaret says, breaking through Emma's thoughts.

They're sitting at the dining room table, going over Mary Margaret's riding lessons through the end of the year. Emma had agreed to take over teaching for her, as the track would be closed and Mary Margaret's entering her last trimester and shouldn't really ride as much. Emma sits up straighter, untangling her fingers from her hair. "What? No, I'm totally engrossed. Good stuff, good… plans…"

Mary Margaret smiles indulgently as Emma tapers off. "You can't possibly be thinking about work. What's wrong?"

"Well I do have tear-down on Wednesday," Emma mutters, glancing back down at the papers spread over the table.

"Emma. I know something has been bothering you this week," Mary Margaret says. "And it's fine if you want to figure it out yourself, but I think you might feel better with a second opinion."

Emma sighs, resting her head in her hands. "That's kind of the thing, though. I know what everyone I'd ask would say I should do. You'll say give it a chance, Regina would tell me I'm being stupid for overthinking it and then probably tell me to do it anyway, and David would tell me not to do it. I don't know who to listen to."

"Sounds to me like you're two to one anyway," Mary Margaret says. Emma sighs in exasperation, letting herself crumble onto the table. She hears Mary Margaret hum thoughtfully. "So if you've already thought it through enough that you know what everyone would tell you to do, it just means you're nervous about actually committing to it, so you're avoiding."

Emma sighs again. "I hate it when you do that."

"You mean you hate it when I'm right."

"That too." She sits up, pushing her hair away from her face. "David might have mentioned this to you at some point, but you remember when I - when I stayed at the Horn for that week in July?"

If Mary Margaret picks up on the careful wording, she doesn't mention it. "He may have told me there was a letter involved," she admits.

"Did he say who it was from?" When Mary Margaret shakes her head, Emma gets up. "Stay here."

She takes the stairs to her room two at a time, if nothing else eager for someone else to share her burden. The letter's stuffed haphazardly in its envelope and she quickly heads back downstairs, passing it off to Mary Margaret as she sinks back down into her chair. "Read it."

Emma sits back, watching Mary Margaret's face as she notices the stamp on the back, then unfolds and reads through the creased paper. When she's done, she lays it on the table and sits back in her chair, her hand covering her swollen belly thoughtfully. "What's he talking about with Henry?" she asks.

Emma shrugs. "Hell if I know. He talks about Gold, but…"

She's been giving Henry space, giving him time with his family while he heals. They text, and Emma is planning on going to visit him sometime after school this week, but she doesn't want to push him. He's seeing Dr. Hopper more, she knows, and she doesn't want to make him talk more about anything that happened if he doesn't want to. If Gold had ever been involved with Henry's illness, Emma didn't know.

If he was, she's damn sure she's going to do more than give him a bloody nose.

"If Neal knows something that might come back to haunt Henry," Mary Margaret starts, then pauses. Emma can see the confliction on her face; she'd filled her family in about Henry's problems, and they certainly know how she feels about Neal.

"Yeah," Emma says finally, trying to fill in the silence.

"Mama!"

Both women look up at the distant sound of Leo calling from upstairs. Mary Margaret sighs and gets to her feet with a grimace. "I won't tell you what to do," she says, rubbing her back absently. She smiles wistfully. "But I will say that you should keep Henry's best interests in mind when you make your decision."

Leo calls again and Mary Margaret leaves Emma alone with a pile of papers and her thoughts.

-/-

"How are you feeling?"

Killian looks up as Belle walks into his office. She sets a thermos on his desk, clutching one of her own in her free, gloved hand. There'd been some light snowfall the night before, so she's bundled up more than usual. She smiles, slipping her knitted hat from her head as she sits in his free chair. "I had some time before I needed to get work done today."

"Another chat?" he asks wryly. As he unscrews the lid on the thermos, a little straw springs from it. He gives her a resigned look; though he's grateful for the consideration, he's beyond ready to be done with this metal nonsense in his mouth. He's sure he's lost at least a stone at this point.

Belle giggles, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. "Sorry, I didn't know when you were allowed to eat like a normal person again."

"Two more bloody weeks," he grumbles, taking a cautious sip. After a moment, he sighs with content - it's hot and black, just the way he likes it. Though perhaps if he loaded it with sugar he might gain some of that weight back.

Belle sits primly, one ankle tucked behind the other, as she sips her own tea. She, too, seems to savor the flavor for a moment before she starts to talk. "Tink says you've been in to see her."

Killian nods. "She's… odd," he says.

"She says you called her a bit mad."

He chuckles. "So much for doctor-patient privileges," he says, taking another sip.

Belle smiles, slipping her gloves off; he does have the heater turned up a bit high, but he's not quite used to Northern winters. Will teased him yesterday about the heat, but Will's a polar bear masquerading as a ponce. It's not Killian's fault he grew up never knowing a truly cold day. "She says she's allowed to mention when patients are mean to her," Belle says, directing his attention back to her. There's a teasing glint in her eye. "But she always acts up a bit when there's someone new."

"Aye," Killian says. "I put that together."

"You're getting on, then?"

He shrugs. "She'll do. We talked a bit about you, actually. Very protective of you, she is."

Belle's face falls a little at that. She glances down at her thermos, picking at a scratch in its side. "She's always been that way. She's had no problems lording the fact that she's two weeks older than I am over me, and she's always been the one to throw herself in front of a bully for me."

Killian's eyebrow ticks up. "She must bloody _love_ your husband then," he comments, half to himself. Her expression drops further and he immediately regrets his words. He's made it no secret that he and Gold are on working terms only, and Gold does him the same favor, but he's made it a point not to openly mention his dislike of the man. Killian starts to get up, wants to offer some sort of comfort in penance of his harsh words. "Belle, love, apologies, I shouldn't have -"

"No, no, it's -" She waves him off and he pauses, sinking back down into his chair. "Robert cares a great deal for me. Tink knows that, but she's like you: she sees right through him. She stopped coming 'round a while ago, we only meet at her place or out somewhere."

Unease prickles at the back of Killian's neck. Something in the phrasing of that and the way her eyes dart around, never looking at him but all around him, puts him off - it makes something stir in him. He's seen that look before, he just can't place it. "I don't like the look on your face, lass."

She sighs, finally looking at him. "How's Henry?" she asks.

Killian eyes her carefully. She's deliberately changing the subject, he's not simple; he also knows that she hasn't pushed him when he hasn't wanted to talk about something. The least he can do is return the favor. "Better, I think. The family came to closing day on Saturday. He's got a longing to work again, I could see it plain as day when they came down to the stables after. No sling, so his bones must have healed; Regina even let him help Will load the horses into the trailer. Did me a favor, actually, bloody office had reams of paperwork for us to turn in."

She nods. "That's good to hear. And… sorry, if I'm crossing a line," Belle says quickly. "Have you seen Emma at all?"

Killian leans back in his chair, taking a long drag from his thermos. He has seen Emma, actually, a few times around the track after that disastrous encounter on her birthday. But the last time sticks out sorely, him at the back of the crowd of trainers trying to put in their end-of-season paperwork, Emma and the Adgarssen sisters weaving through them, talking something about Boston and _dating_ of all things.

It hurt. Still hurts.

"I told her about the letter, if that's what you're asking," he says finally, not meeting her expectant gaze.

He looks down, taking another pull of tea as she sighs; from the sound of it, it wasn't at all what she was asking, but Belle's a smart lass. She'll take the hint to back off, just as he had for her. Stable sounds fill the silence, the men joking and Will barking out orders, the steady clips of the horses being led in and out of their stalls for exercising. "We're a bit of a pair, aren't we?" Belle asks finally.

He bites his lip as he contemplates her meaning for a moment. It surprises him, a bit, how easily the sentiment settles with him - the idea that they're more similar than anyone would think. They're both transplants here, true enough, each settling in from their own corners of the world, but there's more there, beyond that.

She's stubbornly patient with the horses in her care, hardly flinching when she's faced with the most high-strung, flighty beasts in the stable. She's careful and understanding, murmuring softly the whole time she works, and though he doesn't often have time to watch her at her work, Killian's felt an ache of familiarity at her techniques. She doesn't flinch away from Will Scarlet either, Belle - she's dealt with him more than she has Killian in the last year. More than once he's overheard the two having a row, though by the time it escalates to that point he's sure only Jesus, Mary, and Joseph have the faintest clue of how it started. Most amusingly, he's found that the more Will aggravates her, the more she uses words that contain no less than seven syllables. And now -

Well, now things seem to be changing a bit for them both, and guarded as they may be with what matters most to them, Killian thinks that perhaps that familiarity is something they both need at the moment.

Killian's mouth curls into a wry smile. "A bit, yeah."

He looks up to find her glancing at him sidelong. "Best keep each other around then," she says, a hint of a smile on her lips.

He raises his thermos in a toast. "To friendship, Mrs. Gold."

She reaches over and taps her thermos against his. "I can drink to that, Mr. Jones."

-/-

_You should keep Henry's best interests in mind._

Mary Margaret's words echo in Emma's head all weekend, all through barn chores and while she's trying to make arrangements for her temping job on Long Island. She tries not to lose sleep over it, but it wiggles its way into her brain anyway. After spending Sunday night tossing and turning, Emma makes her decision on Monday.

It takes a surprisingly short amount of time to figure out the arrangements to visit someone in prison.

She's driving down to the state prison on Thursday afternoon.

She doesn't quite know what to expect, but it looks normal enough when she pulls into the parking lot. Well, as normal as a prison can look. She really only has _Orange is the New Black_ to go on, but there's no sirens or dogs barking or guards shouting, so things must be okay. She takes a deep breath to steel her nerves before getting out of the car.

She signs in and leaves her things in a locker, then goes through the metal detector and gets a pat-down before being led down a hallway to the visiting room. Blood is pounding in her ears, her breathing sounds entirely too loud as she glances around the hallway. She's discretely trying to wipe her palms on her jeans as they walk into the visiting room, feeling her cheeks warm as she does so. If the corrections officer had no suspicions about her before, she probably does now. Emma sits at a table with knees that wobble and arms that feel weak from nerves and God fucking _dammit,_ she really hates Neal for putting her through this.

There's a couple of other visitors waiting; none of them look as nervous as she feels. There's an older woman at the corner table who looks completely at home; Emma wonders how long she's been coming here. Two women around her age are at other tables, one of them has a toddler. There's an older couple as well, sitting close to one another and holding hands. Emma looks down at her own hands, picking at her cuticles and resisting the urge to scratch at her tattoo.

Suddenly she wonders what Neal is going to say about that, if he's going notice the tattoo at all. _If you can wait until you're broken and drunk to tell Killian, you can hold out on telling Neal_, she tells herself, irritated. She hopes it's true.

She looks up, body tensing, when a buzzer sounds outside and the sounds of footsteps are in the hall. One at a time, four men in tan scrubs shuffle in, their faces lighting up when they see their families. As they disperse to their tables, a fifth man walks in, looking around apprehensively before his gaze finally settles on her.

He looks _older_. She doesn't know why it's so surprising; it's been a long time and a lot has changed since then, but he bears so much more of a resemblance to his father now. His hair is a little longer, a little curly and thinning a bit; she can see threads of gray starting to grow in at his temples. He finally managed to grow that goatee. And his smile is exactly the way she remembers it.

And the most surprising thing is _not_ how much Neal reminds her of Gold, but by how all of her nerves and anticipation vanish when she actually sees him.

She stands up as he walks to her table. "Emma Swan," he says, lifting his arms a little. "I'd have bet you burned that letter. Is it weird if we hug?"

Emma smiles wryly, stepping towards him. It's honestly more weird that it _isn't_. A minute ago she'd been nervous as hell. "I think we can manage that."

It's familiar in a way that's both comforting and unnerving. After almost six years it _shouldn't_ be so familiar. They're so different than the kids they'd been, but even though he smells like whatever soap they give out here and the scrubs are scratchier than the soft flannels or crisp suits she remembers, the feeling of his arms around her is the same. Right now, she's twenty years old again, the whole world ahead of them and all of it theirs for the taking.

She steps back first. "I did take about three months to actually open it," Emma admits as they sit down.

Neal rests his hands on the table, glancing around the room almost uneasily. "Yeah, I figured it was kind of a long shot."

"But you like to bet on those," she points out.

He grins, ducking his head. "Yeah. They seem to work out okay."

There's a pause. Emma has no idea how to proceed from here. Can she just start a normal conversation with her ex-boyfriend? Act like they're not on a timer, sitting in a prison? Neal seems to sense that she's at a bit of a loss and smiles reassuringly. "How've you been? You look good, Ems."

The comfortable feeling between them starts to recede a little; she's always hated that nickname. "I've been busy," she says. She can feel how clipped she sounds, but she can't really help it. "I traveled around a lot for work. Seasons end, move on to the next track."

He catches her gaze; something in his eyes makes her wonder how much he senses she's detracting, how weird this is for her. And then she wonders how long he's had the crows feet around his eyes. "And now you've moved back at the Point," he says.

"Yeah. Henry needed me," she says simply. He knows why Henry needed her.

Neal's face falls a little and Emma sits up a little more. Talking about Henry reminds her that she's not here for a social visit; she's here to find out whatever the hell he has to say to her and be done with it. Neal sighs. "Yeah, about that… Belle told me what happened. Henry getting sick and then Bluff going a little nuts on him and that new trainer."

Emma's heart squeezes as that night flashes through her mind - Bluff's hooves flashing through the air, Henry lying hurt on the stall floor, Killian… She closes her eyes and takes a breath to clear her mind. "Yeah, it wasn't pretty."

Neal looks up. "You were there?"

She nods, but doesn't elaborate. She doesn't want to bring the whole thing up, not with anyone, but least of all her ex. There's another pause as Emma tries to come up with a way of asking him about Gold. She chews on her lip for a moment before asking, "Did your dad have something to do with Henry getting sick?"

He sits back, huffing a sigh as he rakes his fingers through his hair. "God, I hope not, but I swear the way he was talking about Henry for a while just - Ems, you know I love that kid. And my dad fu-screwed me up a heck of a lot. I don't want that to happen to Henry either." At her questioning look, he gives her a lopsided grin. "No swearing allowed - it's a dumb rule, but there's kids and whatever. Good behavior points, all that."

Emma nods. "What was Gold saying," she starts, then pauses again. She doesn't know why it's so hard to start this conversation. She _wants_ to know what's been going on, but part of her knows that finding out the truth is going to change things - possibly irreparably. "God, this is messed up," she says softly, almost to herself.

Neal tilts his head a little, considering her. It's nice that he lets her have a moment to recompose herself. "Has he been okay to you?" he asks. "Since you've been back, I mean?"

She shrugs a little. "At first he was… well, _civil_ is pushing it, but whatever. Belle didn't tell you I punched him in the face?"

Neal bursts into laughter. "Holy crap, no. That's awesome."

Emma smiles a little. "The scolding and the committee meeting and the fine after wasn't so awesome, but he deserved it."

"What, you hit him in front of the commissioners?"

She bites her lip. "Almost as good," she says, wincing a little. "That season opener _soiree_."

He chuckles. "David explained that one to you, I take it. Geez, what the hell did he do to you? I mean, you've always been a little free with your fists, but he really must have cheesed you off."

The memory of that night stings - despite how she'd dragged her feet at going, and the rude conversation on all sides of their table, they'd tried to make the best of it. Robin had been kind when he offered a distraction of conversation, and the way her family had surrounded her almost immediately to protect her from Gold's lies was still a little surprising. Even Killian acting as her getaway vehicle, then keeping her company while her temper cooled… It hadn't been necessary, but it had been kind. The memory of that sort of kindness eases the sting a little, gives Emma the strength to repeat Gold's awful words. "Spread a rumor that I was a gold digger, that I only wanted to marry you because of your dad's money, that because I was a money-grubbing orphan I could never be good enough for you or anyone else, and on top of that I was making moves on Regina's husband over dinner."

The smile slides off Neal's face as he pales. Emma folds her hands in her lap, squeezing her fingers so she wouldn't scratch. The voice is back, the one telling her she's _not good enough_, she's _never enough_ for anyone, she can't even keep Killian who claims to _love her_ \- Emma squeezes her eyes shut, taking deep breaths to shake that evil little voice away, shake Killian's face out of her mind. "Hey. Ems. _Emma_."

She opens her eyes. Neal's looking at her with concern, reaching across the table. "I thought you were done with those," he says softly as she hesitantly takes his hand. He squeezes it reassuringly. "The anxiety attacks. You were getting better."

"Yeah," she says, just as soft. "I was. It's only been in the last… It's - it's been a rough couple of weeks."

She doesn't want to tell him it's only been since she got back to Storybrooke that she's been having issues. The part of her that still loves him - that appreciates that he remembers and is offering her comfort right now - wants to hide the fact that it's kind of his fault they're happening again. Coming back had opened a lot of old wounds that had never entirely healed. She's trying to mend them - talking about James with David, for example - but it's taking more time than she'd anticipated.

Neal offers a smile. He glances down at her wrist and nods. "I like the tat."

Emma breathes a laugh and gently pulls her hand back. "I do too."

He grins at that and sits back. "If it's any consolation, I'm totally jealous you got to punch my dad in the face before I did. Guy deserves it."

It's not much of a consolation, but she'll take it. And she's fully prepared to do it again if Neal ever fesses up as to why she's here to begin with. She takes a deep breath, settling the rest of her nerves. "What did Gold say about Henry?" she asks.

"This will go faster if you just let me talk," he sighs. She nods and he folds his hands on the table. "So back in June, my dad comes to visit. By himself. I thought it was kind of weird, because if he shows up he's usually with Belle. She comes around a lot, keeps me up to date on things. She worries about me."

Emma wonders about that still, if he thinks it's weird. Belle's only three years older than they are. But she knows Gold's first wife died when Neal was young, so he hasn't had much in the way of a mother figure. But she feels like it crosses a line to ask, just like she hasn't asked Belle what it's like to have a stepson who could be her younger brother. "Papa, he - he doesn't come up so much," Neal continues. "And I get that, I guess. We haven't been close in a long time. The fact that he did so much after - after everything is surprising in itself. I thought with the fight we had, the way I'd removed myself from his life and his shadow as much as I could, he'd be glad to be rid of me.

"But he came by himself one day. And he kept talking about how he'd failed me. Which, yeah, he kind of did. It's not like Mom was around to blame for this. But I made my decisions as an adult, I'm taking my punishment. I would have preferred if we talked about something else besides this guilt-trip he's on himself about." Neal sighs again, running his fingers through his hair. "But then he's talking about Henry and I'm immediately wondering where he's going with this. Because you remember how we'd hang out with the kid when we were at the stables or when you'd have him for an afternoon - Papa never cared or took any interest in him."

Emma very vividly remembers that afternoon in the Gold's house when Neal had brought up marriage. Of all the cruel things Gold had said that day, the one that had hurt the most was the accusation that because she was an orphan, she couldn't love anyone unless they offered her something in return. Like Neal could with his inheritance.

There are very few people in this world that Emma Swan loves as unconditionally as she does Henry Mills. Gold's implication that Emma's found family - the one that taught her how to love- was worthless because she had no blood relations to them stung the worst of all.

"He said Henry was taking up running," Neal says, bringing Emma back to the present. "And he was running because it would help him get in shape to become a jockey. And I remembered how much that kid wanted to ride, he just wanted the wind in his hair and to fly around those turns with the best of them. And then I remembered the last time I saw Henry, how completely wrong he is for the job.

"Papa said that he failed me because he didn't help me get the right connections. Something about how I went to a bad school for it." Emma remembers _that_ fight too, hot on the heels of her own decision not to go to college and the fight that had ensued with James and Ruth. Neal had chosen to go to a state school, closer to Storybrooke. Closer to her. She's not surprised that Gold would throw that back in his face. "And now he had an opportunity to do right by someone."

She sucks in a breath, the pieces coming together. "Jesus Christ," she whispers.

Neal nods. "I don't know if he ever got to talking to Henry about it, but -"

"You dad has Jockey Club connections. Your dad has _everyone_ connections. Henry wanted to go to Kentucky."

The room is well-heated, but Emma just feels cold, like all the blood in her veins has been replaced with ice. She's not even shaking, there's no heat to her anger, it just feels as if she's finally opened her eyes and sees everything with perfect clarity. Oh, she's angry - she's fucking _pissed_ \- and she wants to rage and swear, but she also wants to figure out a plan. She wants to drive to Regina's and tell her everything - if _anyone_ can topple the pedestal Robert Gold stands on, it's Regina Hood.

More than anything else, though, Emma wants to curb-stomp the shit out of Gold.

"Who else knows?" she asks.

"Belle. I asked enough questions and I think she put it together herself. I don't know if she's talked to anyone," Neal says.

Emma shakes her head. "She wouldn't, I don't think. She's protective of Gold."

Neal makes a disbelieving sound. "I don't know. She came in last week and something seemed off. She didn't want to talk about Papa at all. Normally she'll fill me in."

She'll think about that later. There's a headache brewing right at her temples. "He probably said something," Emma says softly, pressing her fingers against her head to ease the ache. "Henry sticks with an idea, but he just - the way he went about it tells me Gold must have dangled that carrot in front of him. He had a real goal, not just a possibility to fight with Regina about."

Neal scrubs his face. "Shit," he mutters, just loud enough for Emma to hear. "I should have said something sooner -"

"No, I'm the one who didn't open the letter -"

"I could have told Belle instead of letting her guess," he counters.

She sits back and lets the matter drop, lets them both regroup their tempers. She doesn't want to argue about semantics. He has a point, a good one, and at this stage of the game she's certainly not going to pile more of the blame on herself. It took her too long to figure out what had been happening in the first place, as wrapped up in her own life and her own problems as she was. "He's getting better," she says softly. "Well, starting to, anyway. We caught it early enough, and he's going to Hopper more."

"Still," Neal says, folding his arms across his chest. "It shouldn't have happened in the first place."

She smiles wryly. "We can agree on that, at least." She sighs, glancing towards the windows. Afternoon sunlight streams in, but they're barred from the outside, casting broken up shadows across the floors and tables; it's a stark reminder that this isn't a typical social visit. "I need to call Regina."

"She'll eviscerate him," he points out.

There's no warmth to her smile at all. "I'm counting on it."

They fall silent, letting the other visitors fill the air with quiet chatter. Emma can't pick up any details, but she doesn't want to. For the first time in months - years, really - she feels pity for Neal. He deserves this - what he did is unforgivable - but he's stuck in a cage with no privacy. Her pity extends to everyone else in here; likely their crimes were just as heinous, but she can't imagine not having space to herself, or being able to comfortably keep her own secrets.

The least she can do is ignore what's being said around her.

Neal exhales, bracing his arms on the table. "Ems, I'm sorry."

She blinks, brow furrowed. She hadn't come here looking for an apology. "This is one of those spiritual meetings talking, right?"

He makes a face. "Just hear me out. I was… I was a tool. I'm sorry for all of this," he gestures around, "and everything that happened to get to this point. I pushed you away, and for a long time, I didn't accept my part in that."

Another memory from that night in April comes back, the words that had broken the last of her restraint against punching Gold in the face. _"He was consumed by the thought of getting you back, by any way possible. You left him, you put him on this path. You are the _entire _reason my son is sitting up in Warren with no chance of bail!"_

"Yeah, your dad mentioned something about that," she says softly, looking at the table.

"He didn't have the right to," Neal says. "And I'm sorry he dragged you further into all of this." Emma shrugs, not entirely sure what to say. She can't say that it's okay, because it isn't. She can't say that she forgives him, because she's not sure she ever can. She's made her peace with a lot of what happened in the past, but full forgiveness is something else entirely. She hears him chuckle. "Yeah, I know. I'm not sure I can forgive me either."

It's her turn to breathe a laugh as she shakes her head. "You always were either uncomfortably perceptive or had no clue what you were talking about when I clammed up like this."

"Me?" Neal asks, mock-incredulous. "I was always right about that stuff. You remember what we were gonna do, back when we were kids?"

Emma finds herself smiling. "We were going to pack up everything we owned and move to Tallahassee."

Neal points at her, failing to hide a grin. "Ah, no, _you_ wanted to go to Tallahassee, _I_ wanted to go to Ocala. And eventually you agreed with me."

"Only because that's where all the Thoroughbred farms are," she says. She remembers being so irritated about it every time it got brought up. And now it's only a memory, not even that cringe-worthy, of two idiots who had no idea what the future had in store for them. "And I only ever agreed because you were so stubborn about it and wouldn't listen when I disagreed."

His grin falls a little, his expression a little more forlorn now. "We did agree on one thing. We were gonna buy a little shack on the beach, run away there whenever we could. Teach the kids to surf."

Emma shakes her head. "Still don't know where those kids came from," she says, raising an eyebrow.

"Even after everything with Henry, no kids?"

She smiles indulgently. If anything, the last couple of months with Henry have shown her she's definitely not ready to have children - if ever. And Neal… if she's being honest with herself, she never thought he'd be that good of a father. She's had her fair share of father-figures in her life and Neal would definitely fall under the "fun dad" category. All games, no discipline. If she ever has kids, she doesn't want to constantly be painted as the mean mom, the one who undermines the fun dad's plans.

Her traitor mind suddenly gives her a vision of Killian, teaching a little girl with dark hair to ride a pony, another child strapped to his chest in a carrier. Other memories - like Derby Day when he sat in the corner with Leo, sharing conspiratorial whispers about dinosaurs, or how quickly Leo had taken to him and calling him 'uncle' - resurface and she almost can't breathe as she realizes she's seriously giving this some thought. _Killian would be a good dad_, she thinks, her heart hurting at the realization. She has no right to have these thoughts after the way she treated him, but it doesn't make it any less true. She's even seen that in him with Henry; she's seen that even though he can be gruff or lose his temper a bit, he feels guilt after for not being the bigger person - not being the adult Henry needs.

She gets that.

Neal breathes a laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, I know." Emma looks down. That had always been a thing with them. "Hey, whatever you wanna do, Ems, just be happy."

Her head jerks up, surprised. His lips twitch up briefly. "I care about you, Emma. Always will. I just want you to be happy. Even if it isn't with me."

Her heart hurts, but it feels like it might be a good hurt. It feels like after she and David talked about James. Coming back had reopened a lot of old wounds, but she's trying to mend them - the right way this time. "We were happy. Once."

"And then I became a tool."

Emma reaches across the table. Neal meets her in the middle, covering her hand with his. "And maybe we were just growing up, growing apart. A lot happened those last few months. I was kind of a tool too."

"Nah, you weren't," he says, just as the buzzer in the hall sounds again. He sighs. "That's my cue."

They stand and this time the hug feels like a goodbye. And it kind of is. She doubts she'll see him again while he's still in here; after he's released is a whole other issue. "Go find Tallahassee, Emma," he whispers. "Be happy."

Killian's face unwittingly pops into her head again and she closes her eyes, mentally tracing the scar on his cheek, the dimples that crease his face when he gives her that beaming smile of his.

_Go find Tallahassee_.

She tried to find it once. She spent five years looking, moving from place to place, searching for her happiness. Maybe… Maybe Tallahassee found her instead.

Neal squeezes her hand when he pulls away. "Goodbye, Neal," she says softly.

"See you, Emma."

She watches as he leaves, running her fingers across her tattoo until the distant sound of the doors locking shut sounds. It's a somber group that leaves the visiting room, Emma trailing at the end, thinking hard. She gathers her coat and purse from the locker and shrugs herself into her coat. She weighs her phone in her hand as she walks outside.

She has two phone calls to make.

_Go find Tallahassee._

_You should keep Henry's best interests in mind._

Emma squeezes her eyes shut, hating herself for having this difficult of a choice to make. "Fuck," she mutters, unlocking her phone and scrolling through her contacts.

The other end goes to voicemail almost immediately. "_You've reached the office of Regina Hood. I'm not able to come to the phone right now, leave your name and a phone number to be reached at and I'll be with you as soon as possible_."

Emma practically snarls as she hangs up and dials the main office. "Dammit, Regina…"

"Heller, De Vil, Brown &amp; Pendragon, LLC, how may I direct your call?"

She sighs, stalking over to the Bug. "Yeah, hi, is Regina in today?"

"No, ma'am, I believe she's working from home today. Can I take a message?"

Emma digs in her pocket for her keys. "No, it's fine. Thanks."

She hangs up, unlocking the car and slinging her purse into the passenger seat. She rubs her hands together while the car warms up, warding off the chill. She hopes whatever it is Regina's working on at home today can be interrupted, because Emma's pretty sure she's going to hit the roof when Emma tells her about Gold.

Emma just hopes that Tallahassee can wait.

Or if it's still there at all.

* * *

**Two things:**

**1) I live in Ohio, CBJ are my homeboys, I'm allowed to make fun of them/my state capital ;)**

**2) "Quiet Minds" is one of my favorite episodes. I love it when people who have been apart for a long time meet up later in life and have real, honest conversations about what happened between them. This was my nod to that.**

**Thank you so much for reading, feedback is always lovely!**


	21. November 6-9

**Three quick things: 1. my beta ****idoltina**** is the best and I love her and this story wouldn't be half as good as it is without her. 2. I spent a lot of time listening to Adele while writing this and musing things over, so like... you're warned. 3. "****The Forest for the Trees****" has a more in-depth look at Regina's backstory and what happened to Henry, and it's referenced quite a bit here. If you haven't read it, you won't be****_ lost,_**** but it'll fill in the gaps. :)**

* * *

It's a tense drive back to Storybrooke, one that Emma spends rehearsing and re-rehearsing what she's going to say to Regina. _She'll probably appreciate it more if I get right to the point_, she thinks, passing the "Welcome to Storybrooke!" sign on the outskirts of town. _But is this really something to just blurt out? "Hey, so Gold definitely pushed your kid into making himself sick by making him a stupid promise to get him into jockey school, we should probably do something about that." Yeah, that's not gonna go over well or anything._

The thing is, Emma isn't sure there _is_ a delicate way to put this. Regina's going to be furious no matter what. It's just a matter of whether or not to let her blood pressure skyrocket immediately, or to give it a slightly more gradual climb.

As she makes the turn down Regina's street, she sees another familiar car coming towards her. Emma frowns slightly as Belle drives past her, not even waving as she goes - it's not like anyone else in Storybrooke drives a bright yellow Volkswagon, so it's unlikely Belle wouldn't know it's her. Emma parks in front of Regina's house and gets out, looking down the street as Belle turns the corner and away. She doesn't know Belle well, not really, so perhaps she's friends with someone else who lives on this street. But Belle's husband also works with Regina - in kind of a loose sense of the phrase - so it would make sense for Belle to drop by the house for some reason or another. _Maybe Belle knows about Gold's thing with Henry_, she thinks, surprising herself with the leap.

Emma's mouth twists. Only one way to find out.

She shifts her weight on the balls of her feet impatiently after ringing the doorbell. She knows Regina's home - her car is in the driveway - but Robin's the one who answers the door. "Hi," Emma says, blinking. Robin looks a bit - well, she doesn't know the right word for it. Haunted? Haggard? "Are you - is everything -"

Robin gives a thin-lipped smile. "It's been an… an interesting day, let's say." He shakes his head a little. "My apologies. Hello, Emma, what can I do for you?"

Emma makes a face. She knows the feeling. "Is Regina here? I called the office and they said she was working at home today."

"Yes, of course. Come in, I think - yes, she'll probably be glad to see you."

Robin waves her in and she wonders about his statement - the wording of it more than the sentiment. Not that she dislikes seeing Regina, but 'glad to see you' is not in the top three phrases Emma would associate with Regina's feelings towards her. Top five, probably. Maybe not number four though. Regardless, it has her curious as she toes off her shoes and Robin directs her towards the office. She hears Regina moving around the room as she walks up to the door. "Hey, Regina, was that Belle I saw - oh." Emma comes up short in the door, raising her eyebrows as she sees Regina pouring herself a glass of amber-colored liquid from a crystal decanter. "Day drinking now, I see? Perks of working at home."

Regina doesn't even look surprised to see her, barely sparing her a glance as she raises the tumbler to her lips. "We can't all be pinnacles of virtue, Miss Swan. Shouldn't you be off moping somewhere?"

Emma crosses her arms. Regina's looking for a fight and Emma's not sure she's going to give her one. "So whatever Belle was here for wasn't good, I take it?"

"I'm afraid that falls under client confidentiality."

"So, no."

Regina leans against her desk, glaring at her. "Emma, just say whatever it is you came here to say and then leave me in peace, all right? Today has not gone the way I wanted it to and I would be grateful if you didn't add to my misery."

Emma purses her lips, then goes for the decanter herself. She glances up at Regina as she uncorks it; Regina gives her a long-suffering look before inclining her head. Emma pours herself two fingers and takes a sip - bourbon. She makes a face at the strength, then downs half of it for courage. "Seems like you've had a bit of a day as well," Regina observes as Emma goes for a refill.

"Yeah, well, that's what happens when you visit your ex in prison."

Her words have the intended effect - Regina sets down her glass and folds her arms, watching Emma with intense interest. "You saw Neal," she says.

Emma nods, taking another sip. She doesn't go into the full details - one trip down memory lane is enough for the day - but she does tell Regina about the letter and rehash what Neal told her about Gold and Henry. Regina's face remains impassive as Emma tells her about Gold's visit and his sudden interest in Henry; if anything, Emma would have expected some sort of confirmation about Gold's prior lack of interest in him. Regina's worked with Gold and seen him near Henry much more than Emma, but she doesn't even twitch when Emma tells her about Gold's supposed guilt over failing Neal and how he's now directing his efforts into doing good by someone else: Henry. Emma even digs in further with Gold's Jockey Club connections, but she's met only with Regina's silence, coupled with one finger slowly tapping against her arm and a slightly pinched frown on her face.

Finally, Emma scowls. "Okay, what do you know that I don't?"

Regina sighs. "All of that, apparently," she says drily. At Emma's stunned look, Regina picks up her tumbler and takes another sip. "Henry told me everything the night he got hurt. So I've known about Gold's meddling…" She pauses here and Emma wonders what words she's filtering out before she finally settles on, "_Foolishness_ for weeks now."

It's Emma's turn to set her glass down, propping her hands on her hips. "And you never thought to tell me? I had to go to _Neal_ about all of this?"

Regina side-eyes her. "Emma, don't be ridiculous," she says, taking another sip of bourbon before setting her glass down. "We were handling things, I have two colleagues handling Gold, and to protect Henry we haven't told anyone who didn't need to know."

That stings, and Regina knows it from the brief moment she flinches. Emma's temper flares up, her cheeks warming as she grinds her teeth together. "Oh, so you ignoring me for a week about Henry being sick means I don't deserve to know I was right? Your blatant dismissal of my concerns means I don't deserve to know how he got that way? Oh wait, no, you're right, I'm not family," she snaps, still sore from being kept out after the accident. "I don't care about Henry at all, I'm not _capable_ of caring about anyone who I can't get anything from -"

She cuts herself off, furious with herself for letting her memories of Gold get to her now, furious that her eyes sting with tears, furious that even though she hasn't punched anyone she still can't keep a lid on her temper. She swipes at her eyes uselessly, sniffling before taking her glass and downing the rest of her bourbon. She glances up at Regina, whose eyes are closed and is standing in a resigned sort of way against her desk. There's a long moment of silence, occasionally punctuated by Emma's occasional sniffles, trying to get her emotions under control. "I may be a lot of things," Regina says finally, unfolding her arms and bracing them on the edge of her desk, "but I'm not Gold. And I was wrong."

Emma doesn't let her surprise at the admission show. It's one thing for Regina to have an admission of wrongness, it's another to actually get her to apologize for it.

Regina pushes off of her desk, taking slow steps in a meandering circle as she wrings her hands, her right thumb pressing into her left palm. "I let this happen," she says after a minute or so. "I've been focusing a lot on the future, on _a _future that might not ever come to pass. I wasn't there for Henry, and he didn't let you be there for him either. We both thought he was capable of handling himself, of being a teenager, and then this happened. And it's my fault more than anything else. I should have been paying attention."

"Regina," Emma says with a sigh. "He was pretty determined to hide this from everyone. Even when you were paying attention you didn't see it."

She's been on the receiving end of a lot of Regina's cold stares before, but this might rank in the top three. "There are signs," she says, turning crisply and pacing a little more quickly now. "There are signs and if I had just -"

"Just what?" Emma asks, her exasperation growing.

After another moment, Regina's pacing slows, and then she starts talking. Emma's never heard Regina speak of her mother before, but from the way Regina's telling it now, the woman could give some of Emma's foster mothers a run for their money. At least Emma was always passed on to someone else after a few months - she never had to deal with eighteen _years_ of an emotionally abusive control freak. Regina sits, resting her chin on her folded hands as she stares at the carpet vacantly and talks about a past Emma doesn't blame her for never sharing. "You don't really think he's predisposed to it, do you?" Emma asks when Regina pauses for long enough. She's skeptical of the idea, but she's not an expert.

Regina shakes her head. "No, but there are other factors. I've been more concerned about my own actions, how closely they've mirrored Cora." She sighs and Emma doesn't know what to say, if she can say anything. "And then there's Robin…"

Emma feels herself tense. "What about Robin?" she asks warily. She likes him, she doesn't want to add to her extensive blacklist.

As if sensing Emma's thoughts, Regina glances up wryly. "Nothing like that, Miss Swan. But we were… A lot of planning went into this summer. A lot of plans for future plans."

Emma fights the urge to roll her eyes. "I'm starting to get a buzz here, so if we could skip this "I'm very mysterious" thing and get to the point, I'd appreciate it."

That statement earns her another long-suffering look, but Emma's buzzing enough not to care. Regina sighs, dropping her hands. "Robin and I… have been discussing the possibility of having a baby."

This time Emma does let her surprise show.

She finds herself sinking into Regina's desk chair as the whole story finally comes out: Regina's early marriage to Daniel; their difficulties conceiving and how many miscarriages Regina had before she and Henry hung on to one another; how they'd almost lost hope at having their own child; how much of a physical and emotional toll each and every lost potential future had put on her; how alone she'd felt even when Daniel had been grieving as well. Emma feels her jaw going slack the more Regina talks, the more the puzzle pieces from earlier this summer get put together. _This_ is why Regina had acted so oddly when Mary Margaret said she was pregnant. The stiff speech, the way she'd gone from motherly to closed-off in a matter of moments.

Regina had been jealous.

She knocks back the rest of her own bourbon when she's done. "Wow," Emma says.

"I'd appreciate it if what was said here stayed between us," Regina says, her stern tone not matching the melancholic look in her eyes. "I tend not to go shouting that to everyone."

"I can see why," Emma says, rolling forward and bracing her elbows on the desk. "So you're…"

"We've put that plan on hold for now," Regina explains. "Clearly, if we can't focus on the children we have, we have no business having more. But I expect… I _hope_, rather, that helps you understand why I closed you out of all of this."

Regina has never wanted anything but the best for Henry, and Emma does have a better understanding of why now - aside from what she supposes the usual wants of mothers are. She can see where Regina would find this an acceptable situation to be overprotective, even from someone who cares deeply for Henry as well. It's not an easy truth for Emma to swallow, but she can't see herself behaving differently, if she were Henry's mother and he was in danger from anyone or anything.

Regina takes a breath and exhales slowly. "And," she says, stressing it with a very pointed pause, "I'm sorry for that, Emma." She gives it a moment to sink in before adding drily, "I hope you appreciate the gravity of that."

Emma rolls her eyes, but she smiles as she looks away. She knows to let Regina have the last word there and lets it drop. They're alike, Regina and her, and she knows when saying thanks would just make her uncomfortable.

Her smile fades when she catches sight of a photo of Henry, grinning and holding the bridle of one of their horses. She doesn't remember the last time she saw Henry so earnest and happy - has he even looked like that since she's been back? She chew on the inside of her lip for a moment, drawing one leg up and looping her arms around it. "What are we going to do about Gold?" she asks quietly.

Regina scoffs. "_We_?"

"Regina."

She sighs and gets up, taking her tumbler and picking up Emma's on her way to the decanter. It's almost empty by the time she finishes refilling both glasses and passing one to Emma. "Do you happen to remember a particular incident when you were being an ass?"

Emma gives her the evil eye as she takes a sip. "Gosh, if we go by your count there's so many to choose from," she snarks. "Would it be the one where I punched him in the face? Because I've thought about that. I can tell you exactly how I want to do it this time, if you want."

She catches a peek of a quick smile before Regina covers it with her drink. "The less I know, the better - from a legal standpoint, you understand."

Emma swirls the bourbon in her glass, trying to remember their conversation in the barn the previous spring. The alcohol isn't helping her memory, even if it's helping water down her emotions. "I seem to remember something about you trying to get me to share my toys. And letting people who aren't emotionally invested take care of things. Which… how aren't you invested?"

"I have a few colleagues working on it," Regina says again. "My mentor works in family law. Gold's particular brand of child endangerment is right up her alley. I've been in touch with someone at our sister office as well who specializes in criminal law. So yes, I am letting people who aren't emotionally invested handle things. I've given them the facts, and I have a new file of additional information to send to Zelena in the morning."

Emma raises an eyebrow. "So Belle _was_ here." She would have bet a lot of money that Belle wouldn't ever go against her husband, no matter what she knew - some sort of wifely loyalty or whatever.

Regina makes a face, setting aside her tumbler. "And that's enough bourbon for me. Again, I don't need to request that all of this stays here. Believe me, Miss Swan, I _will_ know if it doesn't."

Emma would also bet a lot of money on Regina having a file of blackmail on every person she knew, and she'd probably win that bet if she cared to look for evidence. Anyway, it's not like Emma has anything to tell. Belle was here about something, maybe related to this bullshit with Gold and Henry, and it's now Emma's job to sit back and let the law handle things. "Yeah, yeah," she says instead, setting her glass down. She nudges the mouse by accident, causing the computer screen to wake up. Emma blinks when she sees the website Regina had been looking at before her computer had gone to sleep. "So, you and Robin can't handle having a third kid right now, but you can handle a puppy?"

As she glances towards Regina, Emma is delighted to note a flicker of panic on the other woman's face. "Why are you looking at my computer?" Regina asks, getting up and hurrying over.

"It just woke up, I must have hit the mouse or something." Emma's amusement grows as Regina hurries around the desk to close out of everything. "Seriously, a dog? You know those are like, eternal toddlers right?"

"Yes, Miss Swan, I'm quite aware, thank you," Regina snaps. Emma should have started a tally, she's pretty sure she's hit a record for 'Miss Swan's today. "It's - the boys have been - _Roland _has been after us about a dog for a while," she continues, her tone softening. "And Robin and I have been discussing it - if Henry continues to get better - as some sort of reward. We're looking around at shelters, weighing options."

"It's a dog, not deciding between a four-cylinder or a six-cylinder," Emma says drily.

"It's a lifestyle change," Regina counters. "There's a lot to consider, particularly if Robin and I are scaling back on work."

Emma's eyebrows go up again. She knew about Robin's cancelled classes the previous month from Henry, but a full scaling back is news to her. Regina doesn't seem to notice her surprise and Emma glances back at the blank screen. "You bringing one of the saddles back from the Horn, then? I think we have horses smaller than some of those dogs you were looking at."

"If I send you to pick up that saddle, will you actually speak to Killian?" It's a low blow, even for Regina on a buzz of her own. She seems to realize it when she stiffens. "I'm sorry, that was -"

"It's okay," Emma cuts her off. It's a low blow, but it's a true one. "I know… Well, I don't know. I don't even know how much you know. But I had a - a flash of realization today. When I left the prison earlier I had two phone calls to make, and I thought - I thought Henry's best interests came first. Even though it turned out you already knew."

She looks up just as Regina smiles sympathetically. She glances towards the door. "Well, I'm not letting you leave until you've sobered up a bit. Why don't you stay for dinner? I'll go talk it over with Robin and you use the rest of that liquid courage to make that second call."

Emma nods, looking back down. Regina leaves her to it as Emma pulls her phone out of her back pocket. She's not sure how much liquid courage she has left, really, or if the fun part of her buzz is fading into the depressing part that seems to linger a lot longer before sobriety returns. She flips her phone over in her hands a few times, thinking about what she's going to say -if he'll even speak to her at all, though he seemed pretty intent to two weeks ago.

_Go find Tallahassee_.

Is there even a Tallahassee to find?

Or is she too scared to even look?

She sighs in disgust, mostly at herself and her nerves and how fucked up her entire life is that she can't even make what should be a simple phone call. She unlocks her phone and scrolls through her contacts. Killian's photo smiles at her - that smile she lo-_liked_ so much, the one that made his eyes glint and made her think he always had some private joke he was about to share. He's wearing his Stetson, the brim pulled down low like he's John Wayne or something. She remembers the day she took that picture - it was a Sunday back at the end of June, when they were still a poorly-kept secret, and he'd been leaning against the rail on his front porch. The boys were bringing in some of the horses after a gate-training session; she'd sent him a dirty text right before she'd driven over - telling him how many ways she wanted to ride him, how she wanted to suck him off, how she wanted to make him scream.

He'd barely waited until they were inside before kissing her breathless, stripping her out of her clothes in the living room, and bending her over the back of the couch.

The cats hadn't been too happy about that.

Her cheeks now flushed from more than just alcohol - seriously, that was a bad thought trail to wander down - Emma presses the call button before she loses her nerve. She holds her breath the entire time it rings, then tries not to feel too disappointed when it goes to voicemail. She swallows hard, really hating how the tremor in her voice gives her away. "Killian - hi, it's uh, it's me. Emma?"

-/-

Killian's phone starts to buzz just as the receptionist calls his name. He digs it out as he stands - Will's the only one who knows he's got these appointments and Will's the only one who call him these days, so Killian's half-thinking the shedrow's burning to the ground as he flips his phone open to check. Instead, his stomach swoops as he sees it's _not_ Will calling, but Emma.

The receptionist calls for him again and Killian hastily shoves his phone back into his pocket, following her down the hall.

Why would Emma be calling? He mutters a distracted hello to Tink as he takes a seat. He and Emma haven't spoken in a few weeks, and as far as he's aware nothing of grave importance has befallen anyone. It's not as if he's _un_happy that she's tried to reach him, but he's not particularly glad of it at the moment either. But that's Emma - never leaving him on sure footing with her. Perhaps it's a timing issue or it's that he's still sore from her brutal brush-off from their last encounter.

Killian blinks, suddenly aware that he's been sitting in Tink's office for several minutes without speaking. She's sitting in her chair, watching him expectantly. "Sorry," he mumbles, shifting a little in his seat.

"You were quite lost in there for a bit," Tink observes.

She doesn't ask, but her tone indicates that he should talk about it. He swallows, not sure if he's ready to fully divulge things; but while his broken heart has been mending it still aches at times. And he has been sitting here in silence for far longer than is appropriate. "I was… I was thinking about Swan," he says after a moment.

Tink tilts her head, considering him as she twirls her pen between her fingers. "Ah, the mysterious Swan again."

He's only mentioned Emma once - well, twice in one session - so he hardly thinks this is an 'ah, her again' moment. But he did ask for time and he supposes if she's distracting him enough with just one phone call, it's a good a sign as any to discuss her now. "Swan is a woman," Killian tells Tink. She doesn't say anything while he ponders his next words, simply waits for him to gather his thoughts. "It was… Emma was a breath of fresh air. She's a quick lass, smart as a whip, beautiful, the biggest heart of anyone I've ever met."

"And it ended."

It's not a question, but he nods anyway. "Badly. We… _I_ said things I shouldn't have. I was angry, but I let it take over my rational senses, let the fact that I was ill stand as a poor excuse for poorer behavior."

"But were they true?"

He looks up. Tink's leaning on her knees, peering at him in that perceptive way that's becoming familiar. He swallows, then nods. "Aye. They were unkind, but that doesn't make them any less true."

She nods. "And do you regret them?"

Killian opens his mouth to say _yes_, then pauses. Does he truly regret what he said? He regrets that his words and actions pushed her away. He regrets that he tried to keep her there by laying his heart on the line, a last-ditch effort, a plea to her kind heart. It's no one's fault but his own that she ran for the hills. One corner of his mouth lifts. "Can I say I regret the manner in which they were said, but not the facts within them?"

Tink shrugs. "You can say whatever you like as long as it's the truth. And that's perfectly reasonable. You're not the first or last person whose relationship ended because of bad timing or lack of communication."

Most people who've had the pleasure of his acquaintance would not say that Killian Jones lacks in communicative abilities, but he has a hunch that Tink isn't implying he's not verbose.

And she would be correct.

"She left. She had every right to, I was a right bastard to her."

Tink sits back, writing something down. "Normally, I don't put much stock in self-loathing men who feel they deserve every blow given to them," she says, and his eyebrows go up. "But there's this saying: drunk words are sober thoughts. You said whatever it is you said because you weren't in your right of mind and weren't in full control of yourself - it doesn't mean you weren't already thinking them. And that's a sign that you should have probably opened up with these thoughts earlier."

Killian leans back, tossing his arm over the back of the chair. He doesn't know how to explain the relationship he and Emma had shared, how so many things had been off the table for discussion for so long. He's starting to realize how little they really had shared - mostly their bodies, only a little of their lives. Part of him knew that, the part that wanted her to make a decision and fully be with him or not, but the truth was that he hadn't given it the full weight of thought it deserved. He'd lashed out, hurt that Emma had left him at such a critical moment, but now he's starting to wonder if there was more to it than just a lack of love. He'd realized back in the spring that there was a lot more to her than met the eye, but he'd lost sight of it somewhere along the way.

She had her reasons for her actions. She'd never explained, and he hadn't asked - not really, not as fully as he could have, too afraid of her pushing him away if he probed too deeply.

Now look where that had gotten them.

Killian shakes his head. "Direct little thing, aren't you?"

She beams. "It's what you pay me for. Now, why bring her up today? You implied it would take some time before you were ready to discuss her."

"She called, just as you were ready to see me. No clue why." He sighs, scrubbing his face with his hand.

"If things ended badly between you two, it seems to me like she would only call for something important. Nothing of the sort comes to mind?"

Killian frowns. _Henry_… Would she call about Henry? He's inclined to think that any updates about the boy would come from his mother. And during their last conversation, Regina had given him the impression that she and Emma were on the same page about Henry now, so he's not sure if that would be the case. "I don't know, truly," he says finally.

However… It makes his chest ache to remember it, but this _is _supposed to help that, after all. "Something else, though, with Emma... It's been bothering me. Last day of the season at the Downs was Saturday, right? There's paperwork we have to turn in at the main offices in the grandstand, so there's me and every other eejit standing around like bumps on a log. Then she comes down from her high palace in broadcasting, her and the Adgarssen sisters, and quick as you please they're darting through the lot of us and talking about going down to Boston. And Emma, she says something about _dating_."

Tink raises an eyebrow. "And this bothers you."

Killian's temper sparks at her tone, as if she's almost _bored_ with such an observation, and he fights not to grind his teeth together. A little over a week or so until they can declare him fit enough to take all these bloody wires out of his mouth, he doesn't want to muck it up. Tink notices his clenched fist, (or perhaps the color he can feel rushing into his cheeks and ears), raising the other eyebrow and giving him a look of reproach. "Mr. Jones, we're going to have a very long discussion about your temper one of these days. I'm merely curious as to why a woman - whom you are no longer in a relationship with and can make her own choices - making a general statement about dating that is not _to_ you but rather within earshot should bother you."

It takes all of his willpower not to shout _because I'm still in love with her!_ It's pathetic, he knows it's pathetic, he doesn't need Tink to remind him. His eejit bleeding heart just won't give up on her, despite the hell they've been though - _he's_ been through. And he knows that Tink is right: he and Emma aren't together, she can do as she damn well pleases.

She has her reasons.

But just because he knows Tink's right doesn't mean he has to be particularly pleased about it.

But Emma calling him out of the blue… There had to be a reason. _You don't know why she would do such a thing_, he tells himself. If nothing else comes of today, he's figured out that he really doesn't know Emma as well as he thought he did. He can talk himself in circles about it and it would get him nowhere. So instead he sits in silence, scowling at the table for the rest of their time together, listening to Tink's pen scratching against the notebook as she writes.

* * *

Will's truck is still parked over in the yard when Killian gets home. His first thought is concern - Will's not one to work overtime if he can help it - but then he notes Belle's car is in the yard as well. She must have come in to work on one of the horses; possibly Scarlet's stayed behind to assist her.

Killian leaves them to it - they know where to find him if they need him for something. He walks up the lawn to the house, the frosted grass crunching under his boots. His phone sits heavily in his pocket as he tromps up the porch stairs, Emma's phone call weighing just as heavily on his mind as he unlocks the door and heads into his kitchen. Si trots in, yowling for her dinner and twining around his legs as he shucks his coat off. "Step off _a chroí_, let me remove me boots. Where's your sister?"

Am has been snubbing him for the last few weeks, hiding under something whenever he comes into the room or outright ignoring him altogether. She has her temperamental moments, though, and hasn't put much thought into it. Si just bats at his bootlaces as he unties them, the prick of her claws against his fingers not fazing him in the least. "You're being a nuisance, sweetheart," Killian murmurs. She headbutts his hand affectionately, chattering at him.

He scratches under her chin the way she likes, smiling at the way she closes her eyes and bares her fangs as she tilts her head to allow him to reach her favorite spot. "Spoiled cat," he mutters, straightening and going for their food dishes.

Si practically sits on his feet as he refills the bowls, being as in the way as she possibly can. Am is nowhere in sight, not even after he rattles the bowls to call her. _She'll turn up_, he thinks, setting both bowls down and grabbing the water dish to refill it.

He thinks longingly of real, solid food as he makes himself another protein shake. Will's brought him all sorts of flavors, but they all taste like chalk. Belle had introduced him to blending everything into a strange sort of shake; but though he understood it likely looked that way in his stomach, something about a steak-and-potato-and-green-beans milkshake made his stomach roll. "Should try it with pizza and a beer," Will had quipped. Belle had backhanded him in the chest for that.

He leaves the television on for noise, flopping back on the couch and digging his phone out of his pocket. He flips it open, staring at the missed call and voicemail notifications as he begrudgingly sucks down his shake.

What could Emma want?

He hits the voicemail button as the tell-tale sound of claws on the back of the couch signals one of the cats scaling it. Si settles herself in on the top, giving herself a post-dinner wash while Killian listens to Emma's message: "_Killian - hi, it's uh, it's me. Emma? That's dumb, sorry, you probably already know it's me. Unless you deleted my number, and I get it if you did - wait, shit, sorry, let me try this again. Hi. I was hoping you'd - I wanted to know if you wanted to meet up. To talk? Because last time wasn't - I really couldn't -_" She sighs exasperatedly and Killian finds himself smiling. "_Okay, look, if you want to make plans to meet or whatever, just call me back. I'll try not to be a bitch this time. Sorry. Bye._"

His first thought is that she sounded slightly inebriated. Given that it was well into the afternoon when she'd called, he's a bit concerned - hypocritically - that she was imbibing so early. Something just have happened - or she couldn't face the idea of contacting him without some liquid courage.

He's not sure he likes that she would feel the need to be drunk to talk to him, that she might be nervous enough about how he would react that she needs something to soften the blow. He lets his phone fall to the side as he drags his hand down his face, loathing the things he said to her that made her so skittish of him. It's his own fault.

But then Tink's words from earlier come back to him: _drunk words are sober thoughts_.

Where he had been weak, allowing himself to speak the truth so cruelly, perhaps Emma is gathering strength. She's guarded, her armor and her walls thick and impenetrable; but perhaps in this way she's letting him in, allowing herself to be vulnerable though she's scared to.

Si chirrups and a weight lands on his legs. Killian looks down; to his surprise, it's Am, her tail flicking as she kneads his jeans before settling herself on his legs. "Are you speaking to me again, then?" he asks mildly. He reaches for her, but she growls a bit, her ears flattening back. "Apparently not," Killian grumbles.

Am stares at him almost disdainfully, the tip of her tail still flicking in annoyance. Not to be outdone, Si chirrups again and stretches her way down the couch, paying Killian no mind as she curls up on his chest. He sighs, petting her; she starts to purr as he thinks. The fantastical part of him wonders if Am is annoyed with him because Emma isn't around anymore - she'd rather adopted Emma as 'her' human, and her little attitude problem had only begun in the last month or so.

His cats are having themselves a snooze and his shake is long gone by the time he makes up his mind. Si trills in surprise when he moves, shifting to fish out his phone from where it had slipped down into the couch. It's not all that late, so he doesn't feel guilty as he calls Emma back - he feels nervous, yes, but not guilty. His heart leaps into his chest when he hears her voice. "Hello?"

"Emma, it's me. You, ah, said something about wanting to meet?"

* * *

They agree to meet on Sunday. There's a park in town he's never been to, a bench near a lake, and as he walks up the path he sees Emma pacing. She's on the phone, her hair spilling out from under a blue beanie, the rest of her bundled up in a puffy coat and jeans. It makes him smile, watching the little hops in her step as she walks - trying to keep warm no doubt. As he gets closer he can hear her end of the conversation. "-no, it'll be fine. I appreciate the offer, but I've got a place lined up." She pauses. "Yeah, Airbnb, it's fine. If it's not fine, I'll take you up on a place to crash."

Killian clears his throat, just loud enough to alert her of his presence. She glances his way briefly, then says, "Hey, I've gotta run. Have those guys in shape for me when I get there alright?" She laughs at something the other person says. "I'm serious, I don't want to spend half my time retraining people. See you in a few weeks."

She slips her phone back into her pocket, trading it for her gloves. "Tying up a few things," she says as she works her hands into her gloves.

He feels parched, though it's only been a few minutes since he's walked here from his truck. "Y-you're leaving, then?"

He shouldn't be surprised at such a thing - from things she's said, she's grown quite used to picking up and moving along every few months. He knows the life, understands it. Hell, he even longs for it some days. He spent most of the last several years more or less constantly moving, trying to find a place where he fit, trying to find home. Storybrooke - the Horn - hadn't always been intended as a long-term plan, but more and more he's found himself accustomed to it: being his own boss certainly comes with benefits, as do these new partnerships he's finding himself in. He likes the town, likes most of the people he comes across.

The longer he stays, the more he's sure he's not going to leave anytime soon.

_But if Emma leaves_…

He schools his features, annoyed with himself for the thought. If she leaves, she leaves. Tink had had the right of it the other day, it's not his business what Emma gets up to. He's making his own life here; the level of civility and involvement they have in each other's lives moving forward will be sorted today.

She's blinking at him, her eyes searching his as she puzzles out his words. "I'm doing a favor for a friend," she says finally. "They need someone for a few weeks at Aqueduct in January."

Despite his reaffirmations, there's an anxious knot in his chest that eases. "Ah. Apologies for assuming -"

"No, it's - I need the money," she says, going to take a seat on the bench. "And I'm probably going to be a little stir-crazy by then, though the timing could be better."

He gestures towards the empty spot next to her and she nods her permission to sit. He wonders after her timing comment for a moment before it hits him - Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, but his brains truly have been addled. "And how is Mary Margaret?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Emma smile a bit. "She's good. She says the last few months are the best and she looks it."

"Good. She looked well when I last saw her, but we didn't chat."

It's easy, Killian realizes with a start. Talking to her is easy and some part of him feels like it shouldn't be - so many words between them, so much time since their last proper conversation, and certainly their last conversation had been confrontational. But then, he supposes, Emma's the one who contacted him, so she's trying to set the pace. The last time they properly spoke, her walls were sky-high again, her armor double-layered; she'd lashed out to protect herself, he understood that now - disliked it, but understood.

It wasn't as if he didn't deserve it. If she's being vulnerable now, it's a kindness he's done nothing to deserve.

They watch late-falling leaves drift across the lake. There's ice slowly starting to creep inwards from the edges of the lake, but it hasn't been so cold as to freeze over entirely just yet. Emma hunches in on herself as a cold breeze gusts through. "I -" she starts, "I wanted - I felt like I should - I'm sorry." She says the last bit in a rush and Killian turns to look at her as she sets her mouth in a determined line. "I'm sorry," she says, slower and more clearly this time. "I walked out - I _left_ when I should have stayed. I left a few times."

He senses she's not finished, just at a loss for how to word what she wants to say. He waits, leaning forward and bracing himself on his legs with his elbows. She lifts one corner of her mouth, her own eyes on her hands as she picks at the pilling on her gloves. "I lost my head when Henry got hurt, but something - something snapped when you…"

"Threw myself in front of a panicky, six hundred-kilo animal like an eejit to protect you," he finishes quietly.

"Yeah, that."

Her eyes close now, her lashes dark against the apples of her cheeks. She's pink from embarrassment or from the cold, he's not sure which. He notes the way her shoulders curve inward as if she's trying to preemptively shield herself from any harsh words he could throw at her, and his heart aches. He did that. He'd pushed her away, jabbed at her with his cruelty when he should have been willing to talk about what had happened. He'd taken advantage of her vulnerability, too wrapped up in his own misery to notice that perhaps she was hurting too and wasn't able to express it properly. "I was a right bastard to you," Killian says, watching her for some sort of reaction. "Apologizing doesn't begin to express how truly sorry I am for the things I said that day."

She huffs, steam blooming in front of her face as she grins briefly. "Well, it's a start."

He hesitates for a moment, then reaches over to cover her hands with his. Her eyes fly open, looking at their hands and then up to his face. "Emma," he says softly. He tries to remember how Tink had phrased it, how to deal with them: drunk words are sober thoughts left to fester too long. "I'm sorry for the way I behaved that morning. I'm sorry for… I'm sorry that I let things build up too much, that I spoke out of anger."

Her expression is guarded, but her eyes are wide and wary. "Did you mean any of it?" she asks.

Killian's eyes drop as he pulls his hand away. "Anything I said had its roots somewhere," he admits. He chews on the inside of his lip a bit. "Bloody hell this is difficult," he mutters and she chuckles in a dry way that says she's in agreement. "I had some issues, some unhappiness in how things were between us. But I should have taken them up with you earlier, discussed things rationally. I should have been brave enough - felt _secure _enough in how things stood between us to discuss them. But I wasn't, and perhaps that's an issue in and of itself."

He sees her nod out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah." It comes out as a whisper, followed by a lengthy pause. Then, "Killian, I'm sorry I made you feel that way."

His gut wants to forgive her, knows it's a big step for her to be able to admit as much. But he needs a little more, he knows that now. "Emma, I meant it when I told you I loved you."

"But you don't anymore," she says, and the lack of doubt or questioning in her voice nearly breaks him. That she believes someone can throw her away so quickly pains him more than anything else.

He shakes his head. "That's not it. I still do, however I… I am a broken man, Emma. The last few weeks have proven that to me. I can't control myself, I can't handle the reality that's thrown at me. I drank myself into a stupor because I thought I lost you - because I lost _Liam_."

She stares, he can tell she's staring, but she doesn't ask what he means. Instead, she says, "Killian, you aren't broken."

There's enough conviction there that he almost believes her. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a wry smile. "Aye, the mass of metal in me mouth says otherwise," he says sardonically. "And that I drank myself into a stupor because I can't hear my brother's voice anymore - tell me, lass, does that sound like a sane man to you?" She reaches for his hand; he tries not to flinch at her touch. "Couldn't stop my brother's murder, my fault my girlfriend was killed, not good enough for you to stay. Everyone I love leaves. But perhaps it's for the best. You deserve better than me, lass. You deserve someone whole."

She recoils a bit and he is colder without her touch. She closes her eyes. "You're not broken," she repeats. "You miss your brother, your - your girlfriend, because they died in a horrible way and you couldn't do a damn thing about it. That's pretty normal. And I can say that because I've been unlovable most of my life." Her voice breaks and his heart breaks with it. She wipes her nose on the back of her glove. "I got passed around - no, I got kicked out of more foster homes than I could count by the time I was fifteen and they just gave up on me. No one wanted me, no one _loved_ me, so they stuck me in a group home for a month. David took me home after school one day, his mom was so horrified about my whole situation that she kept me."

Emma takes a breath and he can hear the waver, the shake that betrays how much she's holding back. He looks up at her as she looks back towards the lake. "David's dad died because of me - or, I thought he did, but I guess he died trying to protect me," she confesses. "So it's still kind of my fault, even if he was drunk at the time. He got kicked in the head by one of our horses during a storm, died pretty much right then and there in front of me. His heart and lungs just kept going a while longer."

All of the air leaves his lungs in a rush as the pieces come together: why she left the hospital, her reluctance to approach him later. It wasn't that she didn't love him, that she didn't care for him - it's that she'd lived this story already. She knew how it ended. And she'd been frightened, wanted to protect herself from being hurt all over again.

She had her reasons. He just hadn't bothered to find out what they were.

She wipes her nose with the back of her glove again. "James died because of me, and then Neal happened not long after that. You know the rest. Well, there was this guy Walsh, he was using me to cheat on his wife, but that's not quite as telling as the rest. So out of the two of us, you're the least broken." Emma glances up at him, her expression somber. Jesus, Mary and Joseph but she's been dealt a rough hand in life. He knows that if he said as much, or gave any significant attention to it, she'd shrug him off. Emma takes a deep breath. "But that's not all of it. I opened that letter."

He watches her expression change ever so slightly as she explains about the letter Belle had wanted her to read. He sees the anger as she recounts the contents, the anxious pinch in her lips as she talks about going to the prison on Thursday - that explains the inebriated phone call, then. He doesn't blame her for that. He sees the anger turn to fury as she tries to keep her voice level when she tells him about Gold.

He doesn't say that he already knew most of this. He doesn't say that Belle had come to him with her own fears of the situation, her own confusion and lack of direction about it all. He doesn't say that he'd done nothing with the information, because what could he have done? He's furious with Robert Gold, but at the end of the day Henry's not his boy and Gold's his employer - he's in as much a bind as the lad.

He thinks she might notice when he relaxes at the news that Regina has a plan for moving forward. She doesn't fully know what it is - Regina's taking it as a legal matter and he believes they both trust her judgement there - but the news will allow him to sleep a bit better. "Truly, I'm surprised you haven't hauled off and knocked the man's head in again," Killian says when she's finished.

Emma fails to hide a small smile. "Regina and I talked about that - twice, actually. I was never very good at letting other people handle things, but I trust her to do things the right way. She says she's got enough dirt on him."

He chuckles. He imagines Regina has enough information - or the means to acquire it - about anyone she wishes to blackmail, not just Gold. "I imagine so."

There's another pause as the wind picks up again. Killian's not sure if he's just gotten used to it at this point or if he's beginning to court frostbite. Emma tucks some of her hair back, out of her face. "Killian, I asked you for time to think," she says quietly. "Maybe not - not _asking_, but I said I wanted to think, that day on the porch when…"

She falls silent again and this time he doesn't fill in the blank. They both know what day she's talking about. After another moment she looks up, her face set with determination but her eyes wide and betraying her nerves. "I was scared. I was scared about what all this meant, what you meant to me. But I've had a lot of time to think since September - a lot of people to talk to. And I'm done thinking.

"I want this. Us."

Killian's never experienced his heart swelling and breaking all at once before now. It's an awful feeling - if she'd said that six weeks ago, even a month ago, he would have been the happiest man alive. He'd have swept her off her feet, both of them laughing and kissing and dancing to a tune only they could hear. He'd have absconded with her to the bedroom - _their _bedroom - a pirate savoring his most precious treasure.

But it's not a month ago. And he's realized a few things since the accident.

She says otherwise, but he knows he's broken in his own ways. He knows he needs to heal - he _wants_ to heal. He wants to make peace with his past, he wants to have full control of his body again, he wants to feel _whole_.

He wants to be a better man for her.

"Emma," he says softly, but too much time must have passed since her confession, and he looks up in time to see her walls climbing higher than ever before as her expression grows stony.

She's on her feet before he can think to say anything else and then he's leaping to his own feet and following her, reaching for her hand. "Emma, please, just hear me out. I don't - it's not as you think, love."

She stops and it breaks his heart further to see her eyes shining with unshed tears as she faces him. He keeps hurting her and this is precisely why he can't let her in just yet. He glances at her lips, set stubbornly in a line yet he can see the slight quiver as she fights for control of her emotions. "Emma, I have not been kind to you, yet I have never lied to you. Please believe me when I say I am still very much in love with you. And it's because I love you that I know I cannot be with you right now."

"Why?" It's a broken thing, this small question with so many answers to choose from.

He squeezes her hand and she responds, a flash of a smile before it fades away again. Killian swallows hard, hating himself for this decision. "I'm - I'm seeing someone right now. A therapist," he says quickly as her face falls. "She's a friend of Belle's, she'll tell you I'm not lying. Belle suggested it to begin with, a way for me to recover from what happened. This was - this was after we fought, after -"

"Yeah," Emma finishes for him.

He smiles briefly. "Tink's helping me get my head on straight, move past everything instead of burying it under work and drink. I don't think - I suppose I've been dealing with my past the wrong way. And it affected us."

Emma nods slowly. "Have you -" She pauses when her words come out funny and clears her throat. "Have you talked about me - _us_ \- at all?"

Killian squeezes her hand again. "Just once. Apparently I lack communication skills."

She snorts, then covers her mouth when she starts to laugh. He smiles as she loses herself in her giggles - there are few and far moments when he sees her like this and he finds her just as adorable as she was the last time. "I'm sorry," she says after a moment. "That's just the most absurd thing -"

"I know," he says, grinning. "Different skills, apparently."

She sobers after another moment. "So this… us… What happens now?"

He pulls her towards him and she allows him to envelop her in a hug. Her arms go around him almost instantly, holding him like she's afraid to let him go - and perhaps she is. His bad hand is trembling as he holds her waist - a sign he's exerted himself a bit too much today, even if it is just emotionally - his other hand rubbing small circles against her back. She shifts in his arms, her head turning to tuck just under his chin. "I promise you, Emma, I'll get better and we can revisit this someday," Killian murmurs against her beanie.

"Yeah, someday."

He can hear the disbelief in her voice, as if someone else has said the same words to her and failed to keep the promise of that hazy 'someday'. His resolve hardens. "Emma, look at me." He leans back slightly and she looks up, with tears clinging to her eyelashes and all. "I'm going to be a better man for you. These," he reaches up and taps his head, then his jaw, "are going to mend. And we will discuss this - discuss _us_ \- again. We just need to give each other a little more time."

Killian holds her gaze until she nods. "Okay." She sighs, resting her head against his chest again. "Maybe it's a good thing I'm getting out of here for a little while," she says.

"New York?"

She hums an affirmative. "Anna and Elsa want to show me around Boston a bit this weekend, too."

There's a sour taste in his mouth. "Ah, yes, the younger Miss Adgarssen wanted to parade you about to a sports team," he says without thinking, forgetting that she hadn't known he was around to hear them.

He feels something like a pinch in his side as Emma pulls back, looking at him with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. "Someone's a stalker," she says drily.

"Hardly," Killian scoffs. "The three of you were quite audible as you wandered through the throng of trainers, I happened to be among them." She pinches him again, but it comes across as more of a tickle and he squirms away, grinning. "Apologies for overhearing something I apparently wasn't to be privy to."

She shakes her head. "No, don't apologize. And Elsa and I already talked her out of that - apparently I'm supposed to swoon over calf muscles or thighs or whatever, but I'm not interested in any of it."

Killian snorts. He happens to know Emma's quite fond of his legs, but just says, "I'm pleased to hear you're unfazed by such superficial nonsense."

She smirks. "I just told her I like a man who knows his way around a starting gate."

He raises an eyebrow at that. He sees her eyes flick down to his lips, her tongue almost automatically peeking out to wet her own lips as she looks back up at him. He feels the pull as strongly as she does, his gaze lingering on her lips for a moment too long before having to look away. She makes a small sound, perhaps in protest, and he can't help but chuckle. "Emma, if I kiss you now, I'm not sure I'd be able to stop," he admits.

"I'm not sure I'd mind," she tells him softly.

Killian glances down again, the temptation strong as she holds him even more tightly, her body a welcome warmth against his in the cold. He's already bending down, or she's raising up on her toes, he's not entirely sure or cares to be sure.

One kiss couldn't hurt, right? A promise that they're not finished, not quite yet.

It's a cold touch of skin on skin, the breath from her nose warm against his cheek as she sighs into him. She doesn't push - no teasing touches from her tongue - and he doesn't press - doesn't wind her hair around his fingers, doesn't tilt her head to deepen the kiss. He couldn't even if he wanted to, but he knows that the moment he pulls away, he should leave.

He doesn't want to pull away.

The cold vanishes as his focus narrows down to Emma - Emma and the feel of her pressed up against him, the little nibbles and teases of her lips against his, the gentle sway of their bodies to some unheard tune. It's chaste and sweet, a moment he wants to savor and hold fast against the uncertainty of the future.

He never wants it to end.

But everything comes to an end someday, and she pulls away first. "That was…" she breathes, an echo of his words from a warmer day, filled with no less passion or interest than today.

"To be continued," he finishes, and he presses a kiss against her forehead.

She nods and he starts to walk away, removing himself from the situation before he breaks his resolve to fix himself, to be better, to become someone she could be proud to call hers. His heart hurts with every step, but it stutters when she calls his name. He glances over his shoulder, pausing mid-step. "Promise me something?" she asks. He nods, not trusting his voice. She folds her arms across her chest, holding herself tight. "Be a better man for yourself first, okay?"

She waits until he nods, then turns on her heel and walks off in the other direction.

Perhaps Tink is right, he does lack communication skills - in more ways than he previously thought. He could only nod to her question; he had no words to explain to Emma that without her, he has no true reason to stick to his guns and change.

* * *

**You didn't think we were done yet, did you? ;) Still plenty left to go! Thank you as always for reading, and if you have questions please talk to me in comments, we'll discuss! :)**


	22. November 15-27

**Grad school's kicking my ass. You're all wonderful for sticking with me, thank you for all the delightful comments. They really keep me motivated. And thank you as always to my wonderful beta ****idoltina****.**

* * *

It's a beautiful restaurant, just nice enough where Kristoff had felt it appropriate to wear a sportcoat. The food tastes amazing and the wine is so far out of Emma's pay grade that she's sipping it far less than is normal to savor the velvety taste. They're out celebrating after Kristoff's win that afternoon and their group is cheerful, regularly causing other patrons to glance over out of curiosity or annoyance when their laughter is too loud.

"Hello, Earth to Emma!"

Emma starts, her hand falling away from her chin as she sits up straighter. Well, she's trying to be cheerful, anyway. She's been a bit down since Sunday - she understands Killian's reasons, even if she doesn't like them - but seeing how happy Anna's been since they arrived has just made her feel lonely. Even Elsa's been more cheerful than Emma can remember seeing her.

She doesn't begrudge them in the least. Kristoff's sweet, and though his straightforward manner is welcome, it does take some getting used to. He's been a gracious host since they got into Boston on Friday afternoon (seemingly right after he did, if the bags in the hall had had anything to say about it), taking them out both last night and now tonight as well. And they'd already made plans for outings over the next two days, something Emma's sure is more for her benefit than either Elsa or Anna.

Emma's not sure what Kristoff already knows about her - hell, Anna and Elsa don't know much about what's happened recently - but they've all been doing their best to make this a nice trip for everyone involved.

And here she is being brooding and distant.

"Sorry," she says, realizing they're watching her with mixed levels of concern. "What's the question?"

Anna and Elsa trade a look that Emma can't quite decipher. "Kristoff has practice in the morning," Anna says. "We just wanted to know if you'd rather sleep in or go out and see what's what."

"Is this an either-or situation?"

Elsa's mouth curls into a wry smile. "Well, Boston on a Sunday morning isn't the _most_ lively -"

"- but there's still things to do," Anna finishes.

Emma shrugs, picking up her fork and spearing a bit of her chicken linguine. "Whatever's fine with me," she says, taking a bite and chewing slowly. She swallows, then says, "We can hang around in pajamas and make Kristoff all exasperated when he comes home."

Kristoff shoots her a long-suffering look. "It's adorable you think they don't do that enough already."

Emma picks up her wine glass, smiling over the rim. "Why break with tradition then?"

Elsa laughs, covering her mouth with one hand, while Kristoff heaves an overdramatic sigh. Anna launches into a new story, allowing the focus to shift off of Emma and letting her return to her thoughts.

She misses Killian.

She sees the casual touches between Anna and Kristoff, the ease of their clear affection for one another, and it makes her heart ache. She could have had that if she hadn't been scared and run away. She could have had that if she hadn't lashed out every time he'd reached out. If she'd opened up sooner, if she'd let him in, if she'd - _enough_.

She's really getting tired of that 'what if' voice in her head.

And she's so _done _beating herself up for what happened. What's done is done.

And it's not as if she blames Killian for being hesitant and taking a step back. It hurts, but she understands what it's like to be out of second chances - hell, _second_ second chances. She knows what it's like to be fed up with getting burned, finally walking away from the fire. In his shoes, she'd have done the same or worse. Hell, she _has_ done worse. And she's glad he's getting help and working through some of his problems. It's just…

She wonders why they couldn't work through them together. She wonders why she can't support him through it.

She's still thinking about it as she prepares for bed. She and Elsa are sharing the guest room in Kristoff's condo; Elsa's got the bathroom at the moment, so Emma finds herself standing at the windows, watching the traffic on the Zakim Bridge as she tames her hair into a loose braid. Tying off the end, she folds her arms tight, hating the longing ache she feels for Killian. She hates that she can almost feel him behind her, holding her and resting his chin on her shoulder. If she closes her eyes, she can almost feel him pulling her snug against him, kissing the side of her head like he always does.

"It's a pretty view, isn't it?"

Emma jumps, turning on the spot. Elsa's back, turning down the sheets. "Sorry, did I scare you?" she asks, fluffing her pillow.

"Yeah, just… lost in thought. Nice view," Emma says, grabbing her toothbrush and going down the hall to the bathroom.

She notices the circles under her eyes after she washes her face; nothing some concealer can't fix, but what she really needs is to sleep. She hates that all of this is affecting her so much that she's not sleeping well. Emma makes a face at herself in the mirror as she brushes her teeth. God, she's hopeless.

Elsa's turned off the overhead lights and closed the curtains by the time Emma gets back. She doesn't look up from her book as Emma finishes puttering around, climbing into bed with a sigh. It's only when Emma's laid down and practically buried herself under the covers that Elsa says, "So, something's been bothering you the last few days."

"Not now, Elsa," Emma mumbles.

"Emma," Elsa begins, sighing, but Emma cuts her off.

"Seriously, not now."

There's another sigh, then Elsa says, "Alright, have it your way."

Emma hears her turn the page in her book. Satisfied that the discussion is dropped, Emma closes her eyes and tries to sleep.

* * *

It's snowing when Emma wakes up.

Elsa's still asleep, so Emma only pulls the curtain back a little to see better. She's fairly sure there's not a bad view any time of the year from this high up, but the view across the river does look pretty cloaked in snowflakes. Smiling slightly, she lets the curtain fall back into place, then heads out into the main room.

Anna's in the kitchen half, making coffee. "Morning!" she says brightly, looking over her shoulder as Emma walks in. "Coffee's here, and there's tons of food so have whatever you want. Is Elsa moving?"

Emma shakes her head, glad she's used to Mary Margaret's morning cheer; Anna appears to have the same morning person genes. Anna presses a mug into Emma's hand before going to rummage around in some cupboards. Emma lays her head on the counter while the machine gurgles through the process. She hears doors banging and stuff being moved around, but Anna thankfully doesn't try to start a conversation yet. There's a moment of quiet, and then footsteps, and then nothing, so Emma decides Anna's probably gone to wake her sister up.

She's savoring the first sip of her coffee when Anna comes back, frowning. "What's up?" Emma asks, setting her mug down in favor of a bagel.

Anna smiles briefly as Emma pops it in the toaster. "Elsa's not feeling great. Off day, they happen. The long car ride and then how busy yesterday was…"

Emma picks up her mug, taking another sip. "Is she okay?"

Anna nods, sighing as she sits at the kitchen island. "Yeah, she will be, she says she just needs some rest and quiet today. I told her we'd get out of her hair, if you don't mind heading out without her?"

"She won't mind?"

Anna shrugs. "Kristoff's literally half a block away and will be back this afternoon, we'll have our phones if she needs anything. And she totally hates it when people put their lives on hold for her, so she'd just get all grouchy if we stayed."

Emma privately believes 'grouchy' is a bit tame for Elsa's temper when it comes to this sort of thing, but she's only ever seen it at work; perhaps she's different at home. The toaster pops up and Emma busies herself with prepping the bagel. Anna makes a face when Emma talks around a mouthful of bread and cream cheese, "If you think it's okay, then sure."

Which is how, an hour or so later, Emma finds herself walking along the Freedom Trail while Anna chatters on about the history of the area and things Emma finds vaguely familiar from history classes. The snow's still falling at a fairly steady rate, the perfect balance that will make a lot of kids cross their fingers about a potential snow day.

"Seriously, how do you remember all this stuff?" Emma asks when they stop for hot cocoa. They're in an outdoor shopping area, most people around them in a hurry to get out of the snow and the cold, but so far it hasn't bothered either Emma or Anna. "You're like a walking history book."

Anna grins. "Housemother, remember? We didn't live quite in this area, but there were always field trips. And homework. Seriously, when you do fifth grade history two years in a row, stuff sticks. And I like reading. If something stuck out, I'd look it up later."

They start walking again, hands warmed by their to-go cups. "Two years is a long time for one place," Emma says quietly. "I don't think I was anywhere more than six months before the Nolans took me in."

She can hear the sympathy in Anna's voice. "I wanted to make things stable for them. A lot of them were like you, bounced around for whatever reason. I wanted to give them something familiar to come home to, even if they eventually found home."

Emma nods, pressing her lips against the cup lid but not drinking. Even though she hadn't been in a group home for too long, she'd still seen two of the employees replaced over that time. She'd heard from other kids she was placed with about how most homes were run, how quick the turnover rate was for the social workers in charge. She wishes there were more of them like Anna. "That's good," she says finally, taking a sip.

They walk in silence for a while. The shopping center has already bypassed Thanksgiving, with lights criss-crossing above the street and Christmas decorations up in every available bit of space. Emma bites back a weary sigh at it all - she's never been too fond of the holidays - and glances over at Anna. There's a question that's been in the back of her mind since they arrived. "So, no pressure if it's too personal, but can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

Emma tries to think of a tactful way to phrase it. "Why aren't you and Kristoff… I don't know, engaged? Or at least living together. You've been together for a while."

There's a wry quirk to Anna's lips as she raises an eyebrow. "Sheesh, you sound like my mom. Or what I expect she would have sounded like if she'd ever met him."

"Sorry, I'm prying -"

"No, it's fine," Anna says breezily. "It's a bit complicated. Well, not complicated. Maybe. There's a lot of parts, so maybe it's complicated but I don't like _saying_ it's complicated because it's _not_, it's just… complex?"

Emma barks a laugh. She's a little envious of how Anna can just say whatever comes to mind, even if it doesn't always make sense. "Trust me, I know complicated."

Anna tilts her head slightly. "You've been a little weird the last couple of days," she admits. "Well, not weird. Withdrawn, I guess. Lost in thought. Kind of sad, but you're good about hiding it."

"Like I said, I know complicated," Emma says with a sigh.

Anna elbows her a little. "You know, things are usually less complicated than we make them out to be in our heads. And talking about it helps."

Emma's almost positive she's said something like that to Henry before. "I think near-death situations, love confessions, realizing you made a huge mistake, and then getting rejected is pretty complicated," she explains dryly.

Anna nods, her expression mildly impressed. "Alright, not bad. I see that and raise you a crazy ex-boyfriend who only tried to drunk-marry you in Vegas over spring break for your inheritance."

Emma's eyebrows go up at that little tidbit of info-dumping, but she manages to keep her voice level as she says, "Are we seriously playing misery poker? Because I can go on all day with that one."

Anna laughs. "No, that's why Kristoff and I aren't engaged. Well, one of a lot of reasons."

Emma shoots her a skeptical look. Seriously, the number of times her foot was accidentally caught in the crossfire of footsie under the table at dinner last night alone made her wonder what was up with them. "Must be a pretty impressive list," she comments.

Anna shrugs, taking Emma by surprise and looping their arms around one another as they walk. "Elsa's a big reason too, though she'd kill me for saying so." As often as the sisters say Elsa doesn't want anyone to put their lives on hold for her, Emma's noticed a fair amount of lives being put on hold anyway.

She wonders how much of that Elsa's noticed, too, and what she has to say about it.

Anna takes a drink and continues, "So I dated this guy in college. Everything a girl wanted - flowers, picking me up for dates, holding the door, coffee dates, not being all demanding when we both had papers and projects or whatever. Textbook dreamboat. Anyway, we decided to spend spring break in Vegas, just the two of us - Elsa and Aunt Ingrid tried to talk me out of it, it was way too intimate too soon, but there wasn't really much they could do and I was being stubborn about the whole thing.

"So it turns out that if you play slots or cards or anything, they give you free drinks. Keeps the money flowing, I guess. And it might surprise you to know that I have a stupidly low tolerance for alcohol," Anna says, making Emma snort. "Luckily, I knew this about myself - Hans didn't. He knew it didn't take much for me to get drunk, not that I was aware and responsible about it."

Emma raises her eyebrow at that over her cup. Anna flaps her hand. "We'd gone to a lot of Greek row parties - like my family said, we did this way too soon. We knew nothing about each other, not really."

She takes a sip and untangles their arms, motioning to a bench - Emma had hardly paid attention to where they were walking, but it looked like a small park on the edge of a harbor. They brush the snow from the bench and sit, giving their legs a rest while Anna finishes her story. "God, we must have sat in the casino for hours. I kept trying to break the machine. Not like, really break it, but figure it out. I can get a little competitive. And I'd take like, one sip of a drink and then forget about it and all the ice would melt, so when one of the servers came around I'd just get it refreshed, right?"

"And Hans thought you were getting sloshed," Emma concludes.

"Yup." She's never heard Anna sound dark or angry before. It's kind of amazing how much loathing can fit into a single syllable. "So finally we leave and he's a little tipsy and it takes me a whole block to realize he's treating me like I'm totally wasted. The cutesy, coaxing voice, like he's baby-talking me. So I tried telling him I was fine and he thought it was the alcohol talking. And we're having this conversation while we're walking and we wind up in front of those quickie wedding halls and he's all like 'hey babe let's just do this' and tries to pull me inside and it was like something in me snapped. It hit me that he thought I was drunk when he wasn't and he -" Anna breaks off with a snarl, her cheeks flushing dark with anger.

"So he thought to coerce you into marriage," Emma finishes, none-too calm herself. Neal had acted like a jackass towards the end of their relationship, but at least he'd been _honest_ about wanting to marry her. "How'd the inheritance thing play into it?"

Anna takes a long pull from her cup. "My - our parents died when I was fifteen. Boating accident. We, ah, we were fairly well off. Elsa and I both have small trusts. Our Aunt Ingrid was the trustee, we'd interit in full when we turned twenty-five."

Emma sighs. She's pretty sure she's seen this episode of _Law &amp; Order _before. "Let me guess: you could inherit early if you got married."

"Bingo."

"And he knew about that clause."

"Yup."

God, how unoriginal did you have to get? Emma's suddenly reminded of her conversation with David, with his morbid kind of jealousy over the death of his father, and she feels like she can relate. It's an awful comparison, but she's pretty sure not many people can say their exes committed illegal equine drugging and murder to win them back. "What a scumbag," she says instead, taking a sip.

Anna grins sardonically. "I did just about break his nose when I punched him, if that helps. And rebooked our flight home and left him stranded while he was in the emergency room. I actually got to spread out a bit on the flight with two seats. It was pretty great."

Emma laughs, holding out her cup for Anna to tap in a toast. She'd never expect the younger woman would be capable of such deviance, but Emma respects her all the more for it. "Sounds like my kind of happily ever after."

They both take a drink this time. "Anyway, that's why we're not engaged," Anna says, staring out at the water with a wistful smile. "Well, one of the reasons why. We love each other. And we know we don't need any of the rest of it. Love is all that really matters." The snow's slowed up a bit, letting them see the steely-gray water more clearly; with all the docks around, Emma expects there would be plenty of boats tied up here during warmer months. After a long moment, Anna speaks up again. "You know, about your happily ever after…"

Emma winces at the phrasing. "Oh, God, if we have to have this conversation can we _not_ make it about fairy tales?"

"We don't have to have any conversation," Anna says hurriedly. "You just seem down. And I'm here to listen, because I know that break-ups suck and you don't have to be all… prickly and broody about it."

Emma's mouth drops open incredulously. "I am _not_ prickly about it!" she exclaims, unsure if she should be offended.

She says it just as Anna takes another drink, making her spit out half of it as she bursts into laughter. Emma's mouth twists into an annoyed smile; okay, she's not _offended_, but it doesn't mean she has to be completely happy about it. Anna starts coughing and Emma pounds on her's back a bit, but eventually she waves Emma off as she wipes her mouth on the back of her glove. "Oh man. I'm just glad you didn't deny the brooding part too."

"Oh, hush," Emma mutters, crossing her arms and legs. She's not _brooding_. Much. "And we're… I don't know what." She chews on the inside of her lip for a moment. "Killian, he… I don't even know. He's on some high horse about wanting to be a better man for me. I'm the one who screwed everything up and _he_ wants to be a better man for _me_?"

"Emma, from what you and Elsa said -"

Emma flaps her hand impatiently. "I know, we both screwed up. But I want to _fix_ it, I -"

"And what about him?"

Emma closes her mouth, startled at the question. "What?"

Anna's facing her fully now, watching her with almost manic intensity. "Maybe Killian wants to fix it, but there's just, like, more to the puzzle than just the two of you? Wait, no. That's… hang on, metaphors." She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment before her face lights up. "Got it. Okay, so there's two jigsaw puzzles, one has five hundred pieces and the other has a thousand. Which one do you pick?"

Emma blinks, looking around to make sure she's actually having this conversation and it's not some bizarre reality show. Satisfied there's no hidden cameras, she says, "Neither, because I don't have the patience do a puzzle."

"_Emma_."

She sighs in disgust. "Fine, the five hundred piece one, I'll get done faster."

Anna nods eagerly, as if Emma's a particularly bright student. "Okay, so you and Killian are sitting at this table and you're each about halfway through your small puzzles, and then someone drops a thousand-piece puzzle on the table."

Emma's shoulders drop, catching on to where Anna's going with this. She barely holds back an annoyed sigh at something so trite. "And since we're almost done with the small puzzles we should finish those before moving on to the big ones, and it's all a metaphor for ourselves and our relationship," she deadpans.

"Exactly!"

Her mouth twists into a frown. "Anna, that doesn't exactly perpetuate a great message. Like, people aren't ever completely not-broken."

Anna rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I know, points to you, but would you rather move on to the big puzzle when you're only missing about ten pieces of the small puzzle, or when you're missing a hundred? Maybe Killian's missing a hundred pieces and he just wants to see the little picture better before moving on to the bigger picture."

Emma's head is starting to ache. She needs another coffee, the hot cocoa isn't going to do it for her anymore this afternoon. "I just don't see why I can't help him with his puzzle," she mumbles, annoyed with herself for continuing with this metaphor.

Anna shrugs. "Some people's healing processes are different. And maybe he doesn't know if he can trust you with -" She slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes going wide. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry, that was rude."

It stings, but surprisingly not as much as Emma would have expected. In fact, it kind of helps her see things more clearly and she feels stupid for not seeing it sooner.

Killian loves her. He just doesn't trust her right now.

And then it hits her like an avalanche.

God, she's _so_ stupid.

She'd been doing the same thing to him all during their relationship. She hadn't told him about Neal's letter and why it was upsetting. She'd picked a fight instead of talking, she'd needed alcohol to even open up about her past around him, she'd been too afraid to ask why it felt like he was pulling away from her - too afraid to open anything else up, to fight more, to lose him if they actually talked and things went badly.

Well that had worked out well for her, hadn't it? She's lost him anyway, pushed him away too many times because it was scary just how quickly he'd gotten under her skin, how quickly and intensely he'd understood her, how much she _loved_ him -

Oh God.

"Oh _God_," Emma says aloud, her heart in her throat. Or maybe her throat's just closing up, or her body's going into some kind of system failure.

"Emma?" Anna asks, her voice hesitant.

"I'm in love with Killian," Emma says faintly. "I mean… I knew that. I think. I tried not to, but I - I think I am."

"I think everyone knew that," Anna says sheepishly. Emma looks at her and she's not sure what emotion she's expressing that makes the smile slide right off of Anna's face. "_Oh_," she says softly. "You _love_ him."

"Yeah," Emma says, panic rising. She knows this feeling now: she's definitely going to throw up.

"Like, _really_ love him. Like, the forever kind of love him."

Her cup falls to the ground, the lid popping off and the rest of the hot cocoa melting the snow and tinting it brown as Emma buries her face in her hands. She tries to breathe normally, past what feels like a vice gripping her chest, and stop the clamor in her head about how she's in love with Killian but it doesn't _matter_, she fucked everything up and she's completely fucked forever because she couldn't get over her issues and let herself trust someone; but it's like a fly buzzing around her head, an annoying noise that won't go away even in ringing silence.

Just as she feels like she's about to fold in on herself, she feels Anna's arms around her, grounding her, giving her something else to focus on.

Her breathing eases.

"I fucked up," she whispers. "I couldn't trust him fully. I pushed him away."

Anna's head comes to rest on Emma's shoulder. She feels Anna nod. "Yeah. But when he said he wanted to be a better man for you, does that sound like you pushed him away for good?"

Emma focuses on Anna's voice, letting the words sink in. And something in that simple question makes the world feel a little less off-kilter. "No," she admits.

"So what happens next?"

God, she really needs caffeine - or maybe not. Panic attacks and caffeine aren't the best mix. She needs _something_ though; it's too bad it's hardly the afternoon. "Million dollar question," Emma says, letting her hands fall away to settle on her lap. She rests her head against Anna's; it's a small comfort, but it's enough. Something in her chest relaxes. "I guess just wait for him to feel like he's better and try again."

Anna shifts and Emma lifts her head. She glances down as Anna digs her chin into Emma's shoulder, raising an eyebrow at Anna's exasperated look. "You're just gonna wait around for him?" she asks drily.

Well, when put that way, Emma feels annoyed with herself. About more than just that, she realizes: she's been kind of a mess the last few weeks.

Maybe it's the adrenaline still pumping, but she's suddenly feeling the urge to go do a million things at once. Even with all of her avoidance tactics - doing other things instead of the one thing she needed to be doing - she's been negligent in a lot of stuff. Henry, first and foremost. Her family, especially with how much of her shit they've been putting up with. Being mopey - _brooding_ \- while Anna and Elsa were kind enough to invite her along on this trip.

Maybe Killian's not the only one who needs to get their shit together before trying again.

Emma glances back at Anna. "What's the plan for tonight?"

Anna blinks before a slow smile spreads across her face. "We didn't really have anything in mind, but if you wanna go out -"

Emma nods. She's pretty sure this adrenaline isn't going to last - there'll be good days and bad ones as she tries to pick herself back up from this fall, tries to put herself back together - but she probably should take advantage of it while she can. "Nothing too crazy, but I think hitting the town would be good for me."

Anna sits up, moving like she's going to clap excitedly and then stopping herself before she gets into it. "Oh this is great! Elsa's going to be thrilled, she's been so worried about you, but there's some great places we can go -"

Oh, right, Elsa's not feeling great. Emma holds up her hand. "Hang on, wait, Elsa said she wanted to rest today, maybe we shouldn't…" There's a flicker of panic on Anna's face before she grins again, but there's something not quite genuine about it this time. Emma frowns, her bullshit detector pinging. "Elsa's not sick, isn't she?" she asks flatly.

"She's _tired_, there's a difference -"

Emma's not buying it. "Anna."

Anna huffs, a cloud of steam appearing for a moment; she stands up and Emma bends to pick up the remnants of her hot cocoa before joining her. "Alright, you caught us," Anna says as they start to walk, presumably back to the condo. "Elsa's just been really worried about you."

"So she sicced you on me," Emma says drily, tossing the cup into a nearby trash can.

"Basically. Worked though, didn't it?" Anna asks hopefully.

Instead of replying, Emma just elbows her, making her laugh. They make it about two blocks before Anna's phone rings; from this end it sounds like Kristoff's made it home. Emma takes advantage of her diverted attention to pull her own phone out. She fires off a text to Henry. _Hey, kid, I'll be home later this week, we should do something._

A few moments later, he responds. _Like what?_

_Anything you want, seriously. We both need to get out for a bit._

Henry just responds with a couple of emojis; Emma _thinks_ they're good, but she's never really understood what the red 100 one means. Satisfied that she's got that aspect of her life rolling, she spends the rest of the walk back to Kristoff's condo trying to think of how else she can start putting her life back together. She's been shutting a lot out of her life since the accident - people _and _experiences. It's annoying that it's taken so long for her to realize it, but talking to Anna has been like ripping a blanket off from over her head. It's going to take some work, and she's sure that blanket's going to come back a few times, but she's never been one to be afraid of hard work. And once she talks to David and Mary Margaret, Emma's certain they'll help her figure it all out. _One day at a time_, she tells herself with a small sigh.

It's not the first time she's had to put herself back together, but at least this time she knows she's not alone.

-/-

"I have homework for you," Tink announces.

Killian looks up, eyebrows cocked in surprise. She hasn't given homework before, and given that he just spent the last hour talking until his teeth wanted to rattle out - almost literally, his newly-freed mouth isn't pleased at the abuse it's gotten - he wonders if he'd said something to trigger it. "Love, I barely passed my Leaving, a man can only take so much," he grumbles, slouching back in his chair.

She has her mischievous look on, the one that makes him wary. "We've been seeing each other about a month, mate, that's about enough time I need to come up with a starter treatment plan. You have two bits of homework actually," she says, her voice practically singing each syllable. "First bit is the long-term one. I'd like you to give up drinking for a time."

Killian frowns. He hasn't had a drop in weeks, but the timing could definitely be better. "You do realize the holidays are coming up?"

"I _know_," Tink says, sarcastically cheerful. "They're quite lovely to experience with a clear mind, there's loads of snow here and people are _mad_ for fairy lights."

He snorts. He sees right through her: she's pushing his buttons, trying to madden him enough to agree to anything just to get her off his back. "Love, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not. I'd pace myself, see, and it's preferable than being reminded of how bloody lonely it all is."

Tink tilts her head slightly, giving him that perceptive look he's becoming all-too familiar with. "We haven't talked about why they might be a lonely time," she says, her tone an abrupt shift from her cheery nonsense to soft and serious. "And I'm not asking you to open up now, not if you're uncomfortable or not ready to talk about it. But I think, if this is a usual experience for you, it might do you some good to stay sober, reflect a little. I'm not saying it won't be hard, but the things that are worth it generally aren't easy."

"Are you paying house visits on Christmas and the New Year, then?"

Tink waves him off. "Blimey, no, I'll be off in the Keys having a smashing time making boys in swimming trunks fetch me margaritas. I have no intention of remembering what year it is for a week," she says, her flippant mask back in place. At Killian's dead-pan stare, she grins. "No drinking through the New Year at least. Trust exercise, in me to you, and it'll go a long way in developing our relationship."

He sighs, resting his head on his fist and staring out the window. He's got a headache brewing from trying to keep all of her facades in order. If keeping him off-kilter was her plan, it's certainly working. And while he doesn't fancy the thought of spending the holidays alone _and_ sober, he supposes that six more weeks of sobriety won't kill him. "Fine. What's the other then? Vegetarian? Give up driving? Some other bloody torture now that I've full control of myself?"

"I want you to make a friend."

He glances back at her sharply. The flippancy is gone, only sincerity showing on her face. "I have friends," he counters, half-offended at the notion.

She purses her lips, one eyebrow lifted in a way that told him she didn't believe him in the slightest. "Name them."

Killian bristles, shifting in his seat to sit up further and flexing his fingers on the arm rests. "Will -"

"- is your employee."

"Belle, then."

"She's technically the wife of your employer, but she also works for you on freelance."

"The Nolans."

"Business associates. Also your ex-girlfriend's family. And the ex-girlfriend doesn't count either."

Killian opens his mouth soundlessly, then closes it again. Just last week she'd said she was proud of him for the decision he'd made about Emma. Tink twirls her pen between her fingers, leaning back in her chair. Her jewelry makes a tinny racket when she tilts her head. "It's not wrong to have good relations with your employees or even your associates. Nor is it wrong to have a civil relationship with ex-partners. But Killian, your world is very small. I know your job is part of who you are, but sometimes it's good to have someone in your life who doesn't live, eat, and breathe horses. Find someone who likes footy, learn how to weave baskets underwater, find a hobby or something!"

She's wrong about his job - it's not part of who he is, it _is_ who he is. He doesn't know how to explain it, career and identity intertwining so much that he's not sure where one begins and the other ends; when he lives where he works, when he's known by his work, when he's done naught else but strive to be known by his work for more than twenty years, who else is he other than _Killian Jones, Thoroughbred trainer_? Her comment about hobbies is irksome as well and he says so. "Why?" Tink asks, looking genuinely interested in his answer.

"I don't have time, do I?" he asks. "I'm on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, I can't just be off weaving baskets underwater or whatever nonsense you just said."

"I'm on call that much too," she points out. "Doesn't mean I don't have hobbies."

"Says the woman going off to get piss-drunk on an island for a week," he scoffs.

Tink gives him a stern look. "Killian, don't be a tosser. You're too intelligent for my tricks, don't tell me _that _fooled you. I'll be on vacation, but that doesn't mean I won't be unreachable _or_ unintelligible in an emergency. What I'm trying to say is that I have a _life_ outside of my work. I have friends. I have hobbies. I have things that I can turn to that take my mind off of things when I have a bad day or a difficult client." She looks at him pointedly there and the corner of his mouth ticks up almost involuntarily. "It's in your best interest to have things in your life that help ease you when things go badly. And friends help."

Killian scrubs his face, sighing. He supposes it's a good thing there's two weeks until their next visit - the holiday week is too busy - because finding time to attempt this will be a pain and a half. "Can't I just start by getting on better with people already around me?" he asks wearily. "Seeing as how it's a busy time, I can't see many lads out waiting for a friendship to happen."

She peers at him. "Good point," she muses, tapping her pen against her lip. "Well, I suppose everyone has to start somewhere… and there's always friends of friends to widen your circle."

Killian tries not to sigh with relief. He doesn't even bloody know where to begin chatting anyone up, particularly if he's not allowed to imbibe for the foreseeable future. "I'm not making any promises," he says pointedly.

"Nor should you," Tink says amicably, the mischievous twinkle back in her eyes. "Bad form to make promises you can't keep."

He glares at her but she's undeterred. He swears some days she's one of the Fair Folk he grew up suspicious of, spiteful little tricksters the lot of them. "But I'll try," he says instead.

"And that's all I can ask."

She moves to another topic, wrapping up the session, as his mind drifts. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he doesn't even know where to start with all of this. The least appealing thought is facing the upcoming holidays with a clear mind. God, the last Christmas he can remember is the one before Liam and Milah died. Killian pinches the bridge of his nose, uncaring as to what Tink is saying as he tries not to dig too deeply into painful memories. They'd died in August, so next Christmas had only been about four months later. He can't really remember much of the intervening months, too deeply entrenched in his own misery to bother staying sober for daily life, let alone a family-centered holiday.

He's distracted as he says goodbye, not sure or, again, caring if Tink notices that his mind is elsewhere. Killian remembers losing that job, the one he'd been on when he'd made that ill-fated trip to Belfast; an acquaintance had kicked him in the arse to sober up enough to hold down another. He winces, remembering that fight - and how desperately ugly he'd gotten during it.

"_They'd want you to_ live_, Killian, your family and Milah. They'd want you to live your life, not whatever you're doing here!"_

"_There's not a bloody fucking thing to live _for_, why even bother?"_

God, maybe he needs to turn around and sit back down with Tink. He can imagine she'd be some mix of pleased and distressed that he'd picked up on this apparent habit of his. _Ship me off to the madhouse, she ought to,_ he thinks as he pulls out of the parking lot.

He'd gotten better, but the holidays were always an ugly time. He preferred to work during them - was glad to take on unwanted extra shifts from lads wanting a day off. No one cared if he showed up hungover or with a little hair of the dog on his breath because he was the only one there. And now, as his own master, he'd be able to do as he pleased - even if it is with a completely clear mind. Killian finds himself chuckling, imagining Liam's exasperation at this new development. He can't quite hear what he'd have to say about it, but he imagines it'd be along the lines of how it would be a nice change for him to not muck up training for a day.

His eyes burn for a moment and Killian blinks a few times, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. He's not exactly sure why he can't quite hear his brother's voice anymore and it hurts. Some days more than others.

He misses Liam.

Killian props one elbow on the door, resting his head against his fist as he shifts his focus. While he can see where Tink's coming from with this whole _make friends _lark, he has no idea where to even begin to go about it. _Hey, Will, come have a pint of bitter, only I can't drink because my bloody therapist said so_, he thinks sarcastically, resting his chin on his hand. _Not bloody likely. He'll think I'm taking the piss anyway._

He runs through various scenarios of how he could possibly go about _making friends_ on the rest of his drive back to the Horn. They range from awkward at best and laughable at worst. '_I want you to make a friend', honestly, Tink, this isn't primary school, you're not me mam_, he thinks, not for the first time as he turns into the driveway.

His heart simultaneously leaps and twists when he sees something unexpected in the turnaround: Emma's unmistakable yellow Bug. It's the only car of its kind in town, there's no mistake. All thoughts of friend-making and dead loved ones fly out of his head as Killian parks, his brain shifting gears into figuring out what could possibly be going wrong to warrant Emma's appearance here.

He slams the truck door shut behind him as Emma and Henry walk out of the barn; Killian can't make out what he's saying, but Henry's talking a mile a minute as Emma ambles along next to him, her hands stuffed into the pockets of a red leather jacket he hasn't seen before. "What's this then?" Killian calls, trying to sound more casual than he feels as he rakes his fingers through his hair. There's no urgency to their pace or Henry's speech, so his pulse slows as he realizes there might not be a problem after all.

Emma looks up, strands of her hair caught in a breeze. "Hey," she calls, tucking her hair behind one ear. She smiles and it's like a balm to his soul. "Sorry, Henry wanted to stop by, make sure you hadn't wrecked the place while he was gone."

Henry is looking better, even to Killian's untrained eye. There's a fullness to his face that had been lacking and he seems happier, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as they come down the slope towards the cars. "Mom says I might be able to come back after the holidays," he announces, wincing as his voice cracks mid-sentence. Killian knows his duty as one who has already walked down the path of puberty and doesn't comment on it. "That is, if you say it's alright," Henry adds in a rush.

Killian nods. Regina had called the other day to lay out her terms; as long as Henry didn't slip back into bad habits in the interim, he'd be allowed to return to the stables in the new year. "Aye, and a fine idea it is. If you'll pardon the expression, it's better to swing back up into the saddle after such an event. If you're willing to put in the work, lad, I don't see why we can't have you on a few times a week."

He admires the lad's courage. Killian's seen more good horsemen take themselves out of the business after an injury far less than what either he or Henry had suffered. That Henry's not only willing but excited to return to work says a lot about his love of the sport, not to mention the animals themselves.

Henry grins at Killian and nods when Emma tells him to get in the Bug to go home. "He's on a tight leash," she says softly as the door slams shut behind him. "Regina probably won't let him over here more than twice a week for an hour or something, but we can all tell he misses it. It'll be good for him, I hope."

Killian nods. This feels easy, just standing here and talking to her like this; it feels just as easy as it was two weeks ago, and it makes him hopeful for the future. "Aye, she gave me some warning to that. You had some time together today, then?"

He notices when she tilts her body towards him, her arms akimbo as she shifts her body weight to one leg. He tries not to notice, definitely tries not to see the way she sways towards him almost without thinking, and he definitely doesn't comment on it for fear of spooking her. He does love her and he hopes that her body language is telling him she still feels similarly. "Yeah," she says softly, glancing back at the car; Henry's on his phone. "I - I had a lot of time to think last weekend. I came back here for Henry, after what happened last fall, and between all the fallout of the accident he just - he wasn't my top priority and he should have been. I'm trying to fix that, among other things."

Killian doesn't say anything for a moment. She says it with such conviction that she believes it to be true, though he believes differently. It's almost funny how he spent the drive here cursing Tink to hell and back, but now he's almost grateful for how quickly she's managed to change his perceptions. "Everyone handles a trauma differently," he says finally. It's the safest response. "And surely Regina's protective instincts didn't help."

Emma laughs shortly and it's like a snippet of a once-beloved song. The tension in his shoulder eases; he misses making her laugh. "I guess you're right," she says.

There's a pause and her weight shifts again, as if she's deciding whether or not she should leave. He's not quite ready for that yet, still raw from thinking about Liam. Her presence helps. "Boston went well, then? Miss Adgarssen didn't parade you about?" he asks, more out of courtesy than genuine desire to know the gritty details.

She smiles, almost indulgently he thinks. He wonders if she's on to him. She reaches up and tucks another loose strand of hair behind her ear; the act makes his hand itch with the urge to reach for her and twist that strand between his fingers - hell, just run his fingers through her hair at all. Emma shifts again as she tucks her hand back into her pocket. "Yeah, it was a nice time. After Anna straightened me out on being - in her words - _broody and prickly_."

It's his turn to laugh, even as his heart is once again twisted up in conflict over why she might have been brooding and pricklier than usual. He has a good guess as to why. "Perish the thought, love, that sounds nothing like you."

"I know, right?" Emma asks wryly. "And there was no _parading about_," she mimics his accent as horribly as ever, making him chuckle, "but Kristoff and his teammates are nice. They were even nice enough to win both games I saw."

It shouldn't make him feel better - Tink's words about jealousy from a few weeks ago come back to him - but he's only human and it does make him glad to hear it. "How generous of them," Killian says drily.

She laughs again. "Yeah," she says, pulling her phone out of her pocket. She makes a face when she sees the time. "Crap, I've gotta get Henry home. I'll see you around?"

The way it's phrased as a question makes him reach out and lightly squeeze her arm, trying to reassure her. As conflicted as he is about himself and everything between them, he hates that he's made her feel unsure as well. She smiles like it's a reflex, quick and tight; the tension in it only starts melting when his hand lingers. "I'm sure of it," Killian tells her before dropping his grip. "Drive safe, love."

Emma walks around the front of the car, glancing at him over the roof as she opens the door. "Good_bye_, Mr. Jones."

Killian smiles, glancing down. The spot under his ear itches. "Goodbye, Miss Swan," he says as he scratches it, her familiar rapport soothing against his unfamiliar response.

It's a rare time when Emma Swan lets him have the last word. He savors it as she starts the car and circles the turnaround, the Bug's headlights cutting swaths through the darkness as she drives away.

* * *

It's not until Wednesday that he finally plucks up enough courage to ask Will down to the pub. "Bloody hell, mate, I know Emma done messed with your head, but this is -" Will starts, ducking away with a grin as Killian tries to box his ears. "Don't get your knickers in a twist!"

"Will." Belle's stern voice comes from down the row. Killian glances between them as Will's expression turns guilty. Belle walks up to them, massaging her fingers as she does. "What did he do now?" she asks Killian, wincing as she works on her hands.

"Git asked me round for a drink," Will says quickly. "All proper like, 'cept he don't even think to bring me flowers to sweeten it."

"Sorry, should I have translated it into wanker?" Killian asks irritably. He does his best to imitate Will's thick drawl. "Oi, lord sir archbishop of banterbury, fancy a cheeky pint round the pub with the lads?"

Will looks skyward as if asking for patience. "Bloody hell, from your lips to God's ears…"

Belle elbows him. "He's trying to be friendly," she says. Killian wonders if Tink briefed her on his homework, or if she's stuck to their confidentiality agreement this time. "And if it makes you feel less like you're on a man-date, I'll come along."

The offer surprises him. "Lass, it's the night before Thanksgiving, you're sure there's nothing you have to prepare?"

He has no bloody idea how Thanksgiving actually works in this country, only what he's seen on the telly. Regina had called the night before and told him to come to her house around three - he'd gotten the distinct impression that refusing the offer was not an option - but she'd given no indication on if he'd have to bring anything. He plans on making something anyway - his mother had raised him right, after all - but his bit can be done in the morning. He's heard horror stories of turkeys and the lengthy preparation time.

Belle just smiles. "Robert and I have everything already taken care of. It's just the two of us, very quiet. He won't mind if I'm out tonight."

Killian shares a glance with Will, who just shrugs in bewilderment. "Fine, let's get this over with then," Will declares, turning on his heel.

They take Belle's car to the pub; both Killian and Will drive trucks and none of them feel like squishing themselves in together. They arrive to find it's a busy night, plenty of people in groups around the bar or standing tables; the familiar atmosphere of a friendly pub immediately settles Killian's nerves. If either Belle or Will have thoughts about his nonalcoholic drink choices, they keep their thoughts to themselves. He does wonder if they spoke about it while he'd been up getting their drink orders (their heads had been bent together in a seemingly intense conversation, springing apart when he'd come back), but nothing is said aloud to him about it. He appreciates it, and his sobriety gives him an excuse to act as the designated driver later.

Perhaps it's their decreasing sobriety levels or his familiar easiness in a pub setting, but he finds the night to be far more enjoyable than expected. He and Belle have chatted about their expat experiences but he's never heard Will's story and, from her reactions, neither has Belle. Will has a flair for the dramatic as he recounts his misspent youth, almost knocking over their glasses on several occasions with his sweeping gestures and making Belle laugh until there's no noise coming out of her.

They try to drag a few nuggets of truth out of Killian's own stories - more the yarns woven by the press than anything he's told them - but he's an honored graduate from the school of weaving pub tales. Will's had enough at this point to believe just about anything and Belle just gives him a knowing look over the glass of water she'd switched to, claiming a need to drive from the Horn back to her own estate. At any rate, most of the stories the papers tell are truthful enough; it's the word-of-mouth stories he's enjoyed watching mutate over the years. "Caught with three of his girls, mate, how'd ol' Hodgeson not bludgeon you over with a pitchfork and turn you into fertilizer?" Will asks, slamming his hand on the table for emphasis.

Killian just grins. This tale in particular is one he doesn't mind - particularly when he'd had no part in it at all and yet it still adds to his reputation as a scoundrel. "Because it was only one, you drunken sod, and Miss Elizabeth was too wrapped up in her own sweetheart to give me the time of day. Her father caught them canoodlin' in the tack room the same time I was fed up to my ears with his lousy business and left. Folks just heard the old man caught his daughter with someone and that I'd left, added two and two to get seven."

Belle rolls her eyes as Will roars with laughter. "Men," she says to no one in particular, sighing for emphasis.

"Pardon my pertness, your ladyship," Killian says with a slight bow. "I'll try not to sully your ears further with any sordid tales."

She rolls her eyes again, but she's smiling as she shoves at him.

It's still early on in pub hours when they leave, but the three of them are used to farm hours. Belle and Killian realize their mistake in letting Will get himself drunk as soon as they step outside and he stumbles right off the curb; it's with a heavy sigh that Killian and Belle coordinate getting everyone and their respective vehicles where they belong. He offers to let the eejit sleep on his couch, but Belle is very insistent on getting Will back to his place.

Killian's starting to feel the drag of the day on his bones and doesn't argue it any further. They leave Will dozing in the backseat of the car when they get back to the Horn; Killian pilfers his keys and follows Belle back across town in Will's truck.

Killian's quite aware of the contradiction of the situation; Will can walk under his own power up to his flat, but neither Belle nor Killian are willing to leave until they know he's alright. Killian watches Belle as Will collapses onto the couch with a muttered, "'m fine, pesky overbearing hens."

"If you're sure," Belle says, her brow furrowed as she bites her lip.

Killian touches her elbow. "Come on, lass, let's let him sleep it off. He's less an eejit than I am."

Her frown only deepens as they leave. "I wasn't thinking of that. And now I'm thinking about it and I'm worried all over again," she says, her words echoing in the stairwell.

"He'll be fine. Like I said, he's not that much of an eejit."

Later, he'll blame the exhaustion dragging through his veins; he'd spent a lot of time thinking about how to bring this up delicately, but right now the _moment _seems more important than the wording of it. They've talked quite a lot since his fall down the rabbit hole, but they've never discussed that night specifically. He's never been sure how to bring it up. Does he thank her? Apologize? Genuflect? He supposes she would expect him to discuss it with Tink, and he has brought it up a little, but Belle had done him a kindness that night. She could have walked away, or never come up to the house at all, but there was a very good chance he owed her - and Will - his life.

Killian rubs the itchy spot under his ear as they get into her car. "Belle, lass," he begins, "I never… I didn't properly thank you that night."

"Killian -"

"No, let me finish. Please." He glances over and she nods. "I was in a bad way. Lots of them, actually. And I went about handling it the wrong way. So thank you - for not walking away, for cleaning up the mess I made, for sticking around and making sure I got help. I owe you my life.

"And thank you for making me talk to Emma," he adds, almost as an afterthought. Belle watches him with a curious expression, but he doesn't elaborate. He doesn't feel right talking about the state of things between him and Emma right now - it feels too much like gossip.

At length, Belle reaches over and grips his shoulder. "I'd hug you, but the console's in the way," she says. "And I only did what any decent person would do."

Killian's not so sure about that; he's known plenty of decent people who would lose their heads in such a situation and walk away before they had to get their hands dirty. But he doesn't say anything else as she drives him back to the Horn and she doesn't push it either.

She does reach over and squeeze his hand before he gets out of the car. "Happy Thanksgiving, Killian."

He smiles, returning the gesture. "Same to you, lass."

Belle looks like she wants to say something else, but changes her mind at the last second. She shakes her head when Killian makes an inquisitive noise, smiling as he gets out and shuts the door behind him.

* * *

He forgets that the next day. Killian doesn't spare a thought to the odd look on Belle's face or the words she decided not to say. He busies himself with making one of his mother's casserole recipes; he gives himself plenty of time to make it into town early for dinner, lest he encourage Regina's wrath. He has a perfectly lovely time at dinner; Roland's ecstatic to see him, insisting on dragging half of his toys out of their box to play. Robin apologizes but Killian insists it's fine. He even manages to double-up, playing with Roland's robot toys while Robin and Henry get the American football game on. "Honestly, I've no bloody clue how it works, but it's almost as good as rugby so I allow it," Robin says, offering Killian a beer.

Killian waves his hand at the beer. "None for me today, mate, thanks."

Robin's eyebrow goes up - curiously, not judgemental - but inclines his head. "Haven't double-fisted since uni," he jokes. "Cheers, mate."

"I'll take Killian's," Henry offers. Killian glances at the boy sharply, but Henry's grinning and Robin's rolling his eyes so Killian relaxes.

He has a perfectly good time. Between them, Regina and Robin managed to make a dinner that makes Killian feel as if he should be rolling away from the table rather than walking. His mother's recipe is a hit - even Roland liked it, and Regina says he picked up bad eating habits from Leo last summer - and Killian gets to see firsthand how much Henry has healed in the last few weeks. The boy smiles more, chats easily with everyone, takes second and third helpings with everything - he even offers to do the dishes, rather than one of his parents asking.

Boys bounce back more quickly than old men like him, but seeing Henry like this gives Killian hope.

Regina sends him home with more leftovers than he believes he'll eat before they go bad, but she won't hear a word against it. "Eat turkey for breakfast for all I care, I don't want to see any poultry in this house for a week," she says, practically shoving him out the door.

Perhaps those horror stories about turkeys are more truthful than he thought.

At home, he doesn't mind spending the evening putting horses out to pasture or taking care of the feeding and medications himself. He'd given the men the day off; even Lewis hadn't argued and it was hard to say who tried to babysit him more these days, Lewis or Will. And the work helped distract him from his sobriety, filled the space that was otherwise lonely and traitorously wondering how he'd be spending the day if things had gone differently back in September.

"_Work is good for the soul, boy."_

Killian sighs, resting his head against a post for a moment. He forgets which of his childhood employers had instilled that idea in him - or tried to turn it into some sort of absolution for his sins - but every once in a while it comes back to him.

He can get through this.

It's late when he finally gets the shedrow settled for the night; a few of the lads will in after midnight for the night shift, so Killian heads back up to the house with thoughts of a turkey sandwich and a shower in mind. Possibly at the same time, if he can manage it.

The cats are all over him for their own dinner, practically leaping onto the countertops to get a head start on it. Killian bats them away, until a knock at the front door distracts him. Am takes advantage of the moment to jump up to get at her food dish and the fact that someone is at the door after ten o'clock on a night when the farm is otherwise deserted is so distracting that Killian can't even scold her for it.

He's halfway through the living room when it occurs to him that perhaps he should have brought one of the cutting knives from the kitchen. But then he calls himself twelve kinds of eejit because anyone trying to kill him probably wouldn't do him the courtesy of knocking first.

Probably.

But he's still surprised when he opens the door and finds Belle standing there, her posture tense and her face worried; Will's right at her back, watching over his shoulder. There's two suitcases with them. Killian glances between them and the cases for a moment, trying to figure out what this might mean, but before he can ask what the bloody hell is going on here, Belle asks, "Killian, remember when you said you owed me?"

"Aye," he answers warily.

"I'm calling in that favor. I need to hide here for a while."

* * *

**I do feel I should mention that I'm fast-forwarding through a lot of the mundane parts of Killian's counseling. Might be obvious to some, but covering my bases. :)**


	23. November 27 - December 6

**You're not dreaming, I really wanted to get another chapter all done over spring break this week. Cheers, loves, thanks so much for your continued support and reviews. Thanks again to idoltina for beta'ing. Heart you!**

* * *

There's a ringing silence after her words. Belle shifts her weight, watching warily for his reaction. Killian just blinks, unsure if he's heard her correctly. "Sorry, what -"

Will nudges Belle forward. "Sorry, mate, but let's do this inside, yeah? Can't risk Gold getting into anything."

Belle heaves an exasperated sigh. She glares over her shoulder as she steps past Killian into the house. "Will, he drank an entire bottle of wine," she begins, unwinding her scarf from around her neck, "_and_ he thinks I'm leaving on a business trip, so it's fine -"

Will grunts, heaving one suitcase up and hauling it inside. Killian grabs the other, dragging it in while they have it out. "Aye, well, take it from the champion of miscalculations during a crime, the thing you _don't _want to happen will _absolutely_ happen the moment you think it's safe -" Will begins.

Belle cuts him off as she shrugs out of her coat. "William Andrew Christopher Scarlett -"

"Oi!" Killian shouts as all bags are dropped in his living room and he locks the front door for good measure. If Belle's hiding, he doesn't want to take any chances about Gold. "If someone could please tell me what the _bloody_ hell you're all on about, I'd be much obliged to them."

Belle sighs, tossing her coat over the back of the chair. Killian moves automatically but Will gets there first. "I'll do it, neat-freak," he says. "Get your explanation. Or d'you want a drink first? You might be needin' it."

"It's fine, sodding eejit, just go make yourself useful," Killian tells him, irritation flaring under his breastbone. He's tired, despite the otherwise pleasant day, and he's in no mood for Will-bloody-Scarlett's flippancy.

Belle glares between the two of them, her hands propped on her hips. "Are the both of you quite finished?"

Despite the fierceness in her tone, Killian notices the tired look in her eyes and the slightly weary droop of her shoulders. Whatever's brought her to his door so late on a holiday has her exhausted. "Aye, lass," he says finally, glancing at Will and motioning for him to get a move on. "Have a seat, tell me what the trouble is."

She sits heavily on the chair, resting her elbows on her knees and burying her face in her hands for a moment. Killian isn't sure if he should move to comfort her or let her have the moment to compose herself. He gingerly sits on the edge of the couch, close enough to her for comfort but still giving her space. At length, Belle sighs and drops her hands. "I've turned Robert in to the police," she says, keeping her eyes trained on the floor.

Killian barely keeps the shock from his face as gooseflesh ripples up his arms. It's not often he's at a loss for words, but the occasion call for it. She glances up when he doesn't say anything; something in his expression must amuse her because she gives him a weary smile. "I know. But I couldn't - I didn't want - I don't even know where to start."

"Henry," Will prompts, coming back into the room. "Start there. You know your bleedin' cats are up on the counter like they own the place, mate?"

Killian curses under his breath but waves it off. "They're fine, I'm the eejit who stopped in the middle of their dinner to answer the door." He turns his attention back to Belle. "What about Henry, love?"

He's already familiar with Belle's suspicions surrounding Gold and the level of his involvement with Henry's illness. The bits she recounts are the same as he's heard before, with Gold all but promising to secure Henry a place at the academy in Kentucky and introducing him to influential people in the racing world. "I did some snooping in his office, there's enough papers with incriminating evidence to support Regina's case for a restraining order," Belle says.

"I had no idea she even wanted that," Killian admits.

"It's partly why she's kept Henry from working here," Belle explains.

Henry's words from the previous week - _after the holidays_ \- come back to him and things make a little more sense. Regina wanting to keep him on a tight leash, restricting his time here when he does return - all of it makes sense if she's trying to limit Henry's exposure to Gold until a restraining order is put into place. "Gold's as much an owner boarding here as Regina is, dunno how she'll figure she can keep him from his own stock," Killian points out.

"She's also trying to have his horses evicted, remove his rights to being here or around her son or her own horses."

This time he doesn't bother to keep the shock off of his face as a chill rolls down his spine. He tries to speak, tries to get some kind of words to form, but his throat's gone dry. _She's mad_, he thinks. _She's gone off the bloody deep end on - on some _crusade _against Gold, with no regard to how such a decision would affect anyone else. _Me_, for God's sake._ That's income he's not sure he can stand to lose, between boarding and training fees. His cut of the purses is just icing on an already sweet cake. "Is she mad?" he finally croaks.

Will's face is grim. "Mrs. Hood doesn't muck about where Henry's concerned, mate."

Killian rests his forehead on his hand, exhaling slowly. He knows that; by all the saints if he knows naught else he knows how protective Regina gets about her son. "God, that's what - Gold takes up a good third of the main stalls?"

"Eight horses, an' we know he's always in the market for more," Will says.

"Eight bloody horses gone, she's a fucking madwoman," Killian mutters, scrubbing his face with his hand.

Belle sits up a little. "Well, three are mine," she says softly, almost hesitant if she should speak up at all. "Their paperwork's in my name, so you'd only be losing five."

Killian's laugh feels hollow and sounds grim. "Only five then, God's surely blessing us now. Jesus, Mary and Joseph..."

Sure and he's being a right arse for focusing on money at a time like this, but it's an unexpected blow. There's a part of him that wonders just how much of all this Tink knew was coming when she handed down the orders not to drink until January; he sure could use a whisky right about now. He doesn't know how much Belle's told her friend or if she's playing all of this close to the vest. He rubs at the spot between his brows, hoping it eases the headache he feels forming just behind his eyes.

"That's not all of it," Belle says quietly, bringing his attention back to her. He wants to laugh, because of course that's not the whole of it, naturally, but he keeps it in. She takes a breath. "I found Robert's checkbook, dating back to last winter."

He can feel Will's eyes boring into the back of his skull and Belle's watching him just as expectantly, but honestly Killian's still stuck on his upcoming loss of income. "Afraid you'll have to spell it out for me, lass," he grumbles after a few minutes of silence.

"Neal's trial," she says.

"Aye, and what of it?" Killian expects the books would be full of all sorts of legal fees for the lawyer.

Belle's mouth twists as much as the fabric of her skirt she's bunched in her fist. "Killian, there's enough money missing - sorted through as little chunks of things I _know_ Robert didn't buy - that I think he paid off the judge."

He sits up straighter, one eyebrow raised. "You _think_?"

She huffs, glancing away. In ordinary circumstances, he'd be amused that her cheeks are flushed, but his nerves are shot. "I went to Argentina in February, remember? We were looking to buy and I wanted to study how their trainers started the yearlings. I don't think any of us expected the case to go to trial so quickly, but Robert insisted I go if I wanted to make it in time for their fall training. But now that I see this - I just wonder if he wanted me out of the way. And I wonder if he slipped someone money to get things going."

Will braces himself on the back of the couch. "Bribin' an elected federal official's against the law."

"He'll get the fine," Killian says immediately. The law applies to the racing commission as well. "Gold's too wily to get snared up."

Will scoffs. "Coupled with the child endangerment? And if they can connect him with what Neal did?" he asks. "Bastard'll get prison time."

Killian's not sure about that, but he lets it go. Another thought comes to him instead. "Is he a citizen? He could get deported for this." He glances at Belle. "And I hate to say it, but they might find a way to deport you too, love."

She shakes her head. "No, he did that ages ago. Tink and I did our naturalization together, so I should be alright."

"Emphasis on _should be_," Killian mutters.

Belle nods, her lips set in a grim line. All of them know very well how quickly the tide can turn against expats, citizenship or not.

The silence after that is almost deafening. Killian's head is spinning from all of this; for the first time in a long time he doesn't know which way to go, what to say, what the right thing is to do. He almost smiles when Belle yawns, covering it with her hand; he can hear her jaw cracking. Killian gets up with a sigh. "I think that's enough doom-talk for one night, you're done in. You can camp here for as long as you need, but I warn you I don't have a spare bed."

She shrugs. "I can make do with the couch for the time being, we'll figure out something."

He shakes his head. "Don't be foolish, you'll take my bed and I'll kip on the couch."

"Killian."

They stare one another down for a long moment before Will steps in. "Alright, enough theatrics. Killian, she's a mule, you're not winning this. Belle, love, consider for thirty seconds the state your back's gonna be in when you wake up, then sleep on the couch anyway. Alright?"

He glances between the both of them, both raising their eyebrows in surprise before nodding mutely. Killian's more stunned to realize that it's been months since Will's called him "Mr. Jones" - not since the accident that he can remember. Then again, he supposes a life-or-death matter does tend to do away with formalities.

Belle mumbles something about preparing for bed, getting to her feet. Killian rises as well, if for no other reason than to give her space. She surprises him by enveloping him in a quick hug. "Thank you," she says softly as he recovers from the shock, his arms going around her.

"Not a problem, love," Killian murmurs.

She pulls away, going to Will next; Killian's brows rise when she stretches up and kisses his cheek. "Thank you, Will, for everything."

Killian's suspicions rise when Will doesn't act as if the kiss is anything out of the ordinary. "'s nothin', Belle, truly."

He waits until Belle's gone upstairs with her things to grab Will by the elbow and drag him through the living room, the kitchen, and out onto the back porch. "Are you bloody mad?" Killian hisses as he shuts the door behind them. "Making up to Gold's wife - seriously, which of us got knocked around the head?"

Will scoffs, digging in his coat pocket and pulling out his pack of cigarettes. "You've got the wrong idea, mate," he says, slapping the pack against his palm a few times.

Killian debates with himself for about thirty seconds before sticking his hand out for one. Reminders of Henry are fresh enough that he feels a bit guilty for accepting the cigarette, but at the moment he needs some kind of tension relief and there's naught else to be found. He hears Tink's reproachful voice in his head - trading one vice in for another - but he ignores it. It's not his first cigarette, nor will it likely be the last. "I'm not makin' up to anyone," Will continues, talking around the stick in his mouth. "Well, that's a lie. We flirt a bit, but she's a married woman. Even I got a sense of honor, yeah?"

The flame from the lighter throws Will's face into sharp relief for a moment before he passes it to Killian. "Sure and that was the most platonic show of thanks I've ever seen," he retorts before lighting his own cigarette. He tosses the lighter back, taking a drag.

"I'm being serious, Killian." Will's tone makes him look up; it's difficult to see clearly in the dark, but Killian can just make out the somber expression on his face. "Look, even if she reciprocated, it'd mean a whole mess more for her if Gold found out. She'd get snared in all sorts of legal shit, messy divorce, the whole lot. I've done all this for her so far with no expectations, least I can do is make sure she gets out full and clean. 's long as she's happy, yeah?"

Killian taps the butt of his cigarette with his thumb. "You do have feelings for her, though."

Will doesn't answer for a long moment. He shifts his weight, his head bobbing along slightly to a tune Killian can't hear, his gaze set out across the dark hills. Will takes a long drag off his cigarette, the cherry flaring bright red in the night, then exhales slowly. "Tried that once. Didn't work out the way I'd planned," he says finally.

He doesn't seem keen to elaborate; perhaps another time Killian might feel concern over that, but truly he feels there's been enough sharing for one evening. He only knows there was a woman named Ana in Will's life at one point and that she'd been out of the picture long before Killian ever came to the Horn. But all the same, there's an odd feeling in Killian's chest - not _odd_ perhaps, but rather unfamiliar, particularly towards other people.

He feels sorry for Will.

He takes another drag off the cigarette before stepping off the porch, crouching down to grind the rest into the frozen dirt. "Well, do me a favor. Next time you go white-knighting for someone and placing them in my house as some sort of haven, warn a man beforehand?"

Will's laugh sounds more genuine this time. "Less you knew beforehand the better, truth. No one can say you were part of any premeditation, less chance of you getting caught up in any sort of legal business."

Killian tries not to think about that; the last thing he wants is Immigration riding his ass, which Gold would certainly put the bug in someone's ear about and Killian would find himself being put on the next plane back to Ireland. Instead, he stands up again and walks back up the porch steps, asking, "You're alright to leave? No other cloak-and-dagger business to attend to tonight?"

Will chuckles. "We already stashed her car in one of the old barns." Killian briefly wonders how he'd missed that commotion, but there's a lot of unused buildings grouped up around the farm and Will undoubtedly knows more ins and outs of the property than Killian does. "And Gold shouldn't bother her, in theory; he thinks she's spending the night at a friend's and she'll head to the airport from there. 's closer or sommat. He don't like many of her friends much so I expect he'll leave her be until he expects her to be in California. After that's trouble," Will explains.

Killian shakes his head. It's a hefty wager they're placing on Gold's suspicions remaining unaroused; it's even riskier to assume he dislikes _all_ of her friends enough not to badger Belle if he does grow suspicious. "Right, well, I suppose we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

Possibly jumping off of said bridge instead, but Killian doesn't say that part aloud.

Will sighs, putting his cigarette to his lips again and taking a drag. "She's got a plan," he says through a cloud of smoke. He doesn't sound completely convinced, but he sounds more sure of Belle than Killian feels. "She's smarter'n both of us put together."

Killian runs his fingers through his hair, wincing as his muscles start to protest being awake any longer. "Does she at least have any idea of when the police will make their move?"

Will shrugs, letting his arms slap against his sides. "Not a bloody clue."

"Helpful."

"That's the coppers for you."

He feels like there's nothing else to say, anything else being pure speculation or talking around in circles, and bloody hell he's just tired. Will's stepping off the porch anyway, so he just lifts his hand in farewell; he'll be back in a few hours for morning duty anyway. They can talk then, if something new comes up.

Belle's in the living room when he comes back in, Si and Am inspecting her closely as she pulls a blanket out of one of her bags. "Careful, they're fond of bags," Killian cautions. "Especially when they're full of clothes that you'd rather keep hair-free."

She giggles, scratching Am under the chin. "They're perfectly lovely."

He gestures towards the blanket. He's glad she thought to bring that much; he's not sure there's a spare anywhere. "Anything else you need?"

Belle sits, unfolding the blanket over her legs. "A pillow wouldn't go amiss, honestly, but I can do without."

Killian grimaces, realizing how very much of a bachelor he is - he's got no spare bedding or even a full spare room set up. Any friendly faces staying the night in the past always spent it with him, in his bed. "I'll see what I can find. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen if you get peckish. Regina sent me away with half the dinner table so there's food aplenty. Tea and coffee, whatever you like."

She nods and gets settled in on the couch; there's already a book he doesn't recognize as one of his own on the end table, one she picks up as the cats make themselves at home with their new friend on the couch. Killian smiles wryly - traitorous little beasts - before heading upstairs.

In his room he has a choice: giving up his own pillow, or the one he still thinks of as Emma's. It grates at him a little that he's not willing to give either of them up. His own because it's mashed up and flattened and malleable in the way that he likes, or Emma's because it's, well, _hers_. Her scent's long since faded from the fabric but he can still delude himself into believing something of her still lingers. Or maybe it's just the toiletries and other feminine nonsense of hers he hasn't been able to bear tossing out, all of them shoved into a box in the back of his closet; maybe he'd forgotten to close a lid, just as she had, and the scent still drifts through sometimes.

Or maybe he's just an eejit who needs to get his head on straight before he mucks it all up again.

In the end, Killian gives up his own pillow; there's something in him that just can't be comfortable giving another woman Emma's things, no matter how platonic the gesture may be. He smiles slightly when Belle folds it up under her head in much the same way he does. "I'll make sure everything's off down here before I go to sleep," she promises, just before turning her attention back to her book.

He wishes her goodnight and goes to rinse off the grime of the day.

The hot water does wonders for his tense muscles; afterwards he all but collapses into the bed, the weight of everything wiping out most of the rest of his mental and physical strength. He hugs the pillow close, nose buried against it, hoping for any remnant of Emma to still be there as comfort. _Mad as a hatter, I am_, he thinks with what feels like the hundredth sigh of the night.

Part of him wants to call her; he misses the sound of her voice, knows she'd be able to talk him through this new turn of events, knows she'd help help him relax. But the part of him that sounds like some strange mix of Liam and Tink is telling him to take a step back. For one thing, he doesn't know how many people Belle wants aware of this new situation. For another, he knows he should find some way of handling this himself for a little while. _'There's nothing wrong with asking for help,'_ Liam/Tink tells him. _'But perhaps it's best that your first instinct not be Emma right now.'_

And he knows that to be true enough - he's caused her enough pain, keeping her on the hook as such would only make matters worse. No, he'll find counsel with someone else. After talking to Belle and making sure of her parameters. _Which_, he thinks as he wearily closes his eyes, _can absolutely wait until morning_.

-/-

Emma's doing the dinner dishes on Monday, an old Motown station jamming away on the satellite radio, when she hears Mary Margaret shout, "_What?!_" in the living room.

She glances over her shoulder; David's putting away the dried dishes and just shrugs at her inquiring look. She knows Leo's upstairs in his room and Mary Margaret was supposed to be grading homework while catching up on a show. Maybe some character she liked got stabbed or something. "I'm sure we'll find out soon enough," David says, his tone indicating he's thinking along the same lines.

Emma should have known it was too much to assume there was something shocking happening on TV.

About twenty minutes later, just as the last of the dishes are dried and being put away, Mary Margaret pops her head into the kitchen. "Belle left Gold," she announces over the music.

"What?!" Emma's not sure if her voice or David's is the higher pitched, but the harmony was nice.

Mary Margaret nods, her face grim. She waits until David turns the music down to explain. "Apparently she just showed up at Killian's door with two suitcases on Thursday and she's been staying there ever since."

Emma feels a chill drip down her spine. _He wouldn't_, she thinks desperately. She grits her teeth, trying to focus on something other than this horrible spiral she feels coming on. Her wrists start to itch and she grips the dishcloth in her hand harder to stop herself from scratching. _No, he promised, he - he said we -_

The nasty part of her mind recounts all the rumors she's ever heard about him - how many owners have caught him with wives or daughters, how many times he's left a job or a stable before he got caught. In the three years he's been Stateside there's been enough gossip to keep even the most nosy socialite happy for months. _Gold's just another owner, Belle just another -_ no, Emma thinks vehemently. She needs to trust Killian, she absolutely needs to trust what he said was the truth. He said he loves her. He said he'd get better, he'd heal, and they'd try again, she needs to _trust _that what he said was true. And she loves him, she knows she does, so if she loves him she has to trust that he's telling the truth. But the nasty part of her says that he doesn't know that she loves him; the nasty part of her wonders if Belle's helping him heal and how _exactly_ she's going about that, and she tries to shuts it down; though the weak part of her isn't sure. She feels a lump forming in her throat: her lips trembles and her jaw aches and she feels someone tugging at the dishcloth locked in her firm grip. "_Emma_."

Emma blinks out of her reverie. It's Mary Margaret and she gently tugs at the dishcloth again; Emma releases it, feeling the pattern embedded in the fabric now pressed into the skin of her palm. "Is she -" Emma pauses, swallowing the lump down to clear her throat. "Why there?"

"He has room for her," Mary Margaret explains softly. Her expression is apologetic. "Will's the one who brought her over. I was just on the phone with Killian, Belle's been crashing on his couch until they can get a guest room set up for her. Apparently it's safer for her there, because Will only has a futon and that could look bad for her if or when she files for divorce."

Emma shakes her head; she's not naive, knows Killian's reputation. "And Killian's the safer bet?"

Mary Margaret levels a look at her, but it's David who says, "Anyone with eyes knows Will's got some kind of feelings towards Belle, just like they know you and Killian are still an item - even if it's on the backburner."

Emma glances at her brother with some surprise. He's not one for barn gossip - or too much knowledge about his sister's relationships - so for him to say so must make it true. David barely refrains from rolling his eyes. "I know, but it's obvious. Maybe not the smartest plan out there, but if Belle doesn't have a lot of options then I can see why she made that decision."

She takes a few breaths to calm herself, letting Mary Margaret rub her arm soothingly. As her common sense comes back, Emma can see David's point. Still, surely there are other places Belle could have gone - she's got to have other friends. Hell, Emma saw her leaving Regina's a few weeks ago - "Regina," Emma breathes, eyes going wide.

David and Mary Margaret share a worried look. "What about Regina?"

Emma exhales slowly. "I saw Belle leaving Regina's a few weeks ago. She let it slip that Belle had been in to talk about what happened with Henry and Gold."

David's eyebrows go up. "You think she's in on it?"

She nods, a little overwhelmed as her brain pieces the picture together faster than she can get the words out. "She's a lawyer - even if she's not the right kind Belle needs, she has connections. And she doesn't like Gold much these days. It's enough of a carrot to tempt her into helping his wife. And she hinted at involving several other lawyers she works with about her own issues with Gold and Henry. I'd bet a lot of money that she's drafting paperwork to keep Gold away from the Horn. If she told Belle that, no wonder she thought it would be the safest place to go."

Mary Margaret gapes. "A restraining order? Can she do that when he pays for boarding and training there?"

"She must think she can," Emma says, leaning back against the counter. "You know Regina, she wouldn't - well, no, she _would_ do it even if she thought she couldn't, just to prove herself wrong."

David props his hands on his hips. "Damn."

"Yeah."

Mary Margaret lays a hand absently over her belly. "Killian really just called to let us know where we could find Belle if something came up, but this…" she drifts off, her eyebrows knit together with worry.

The whole situation is bad, but there's something that doesn't quite add up for Emma: Belle waiting this long to leave Gold and, on top of that, feeling as if she needs to hide from him. She'd stuck by him after the one-man smear campaign he'd tried to lead against Emma; of course, Belle knows Henry a little better than Emma, so she tries not to take it too personally. But the accident was in September. Why wait two months? And why only feel unsafe now?

She heads upstairs after a little while, leaving Mary Margaret and David to talk in the living room. Emma checks on Leo before going up to the attic; he's enamored with a new Lego set and doesn't want to be bothered. The stairwell to the attic is cool, but her room is pleasant enough with the space heaters going; the attic's insulated, but it's an old house and it gets drafty.

She pulls out her phone as she sits at her desk, scrolling through her contacts. She hesitates over Killian's number; he'd called Mary Margaret, after all, maybe he doesn't want to talk to her right now. _Maybe he's trying to hide - shut up_, Emma mentally growls.

She has to trust him. If she really does love him, she has to trust him.

She hits the call button.

Killian picks up so quickly that Emma's left wondering if he was waiting for her to call. "Hello, love," he says.

There's a warm spot in her chest, almost like a glow that spreads out to the rest of her body; she's missed the sound of his voice being so regular in her life. "Hey," she says softly, wondering if he can hear her smile in her voice or not. "So I hear you're not bunking solo anymore?"

If his voice made her warm, his chuckle makes her skin tingle pleasantly. _Fucking fucker_, she thinks, flustered. She misses him, but her body's making her feel like a teenager and it's _distracting_. She focuses on what Killian's saying. "I suppose you could call it that, though tragically my cats have abandoned me for the living room and I'm truly solo every night. They like Belle much better than me."

"That's because cats have good taste," Emma says drily and gets the laugh she was looking for. She feels less tense at the sound, though she's big enough to admit that hearing him say he's sleeping alone goes a long way into helping her relax. "She's okay though?"

"Aye, she's determined to be cheery and focus on what's happening now. And she's determined to earn her keep. When she's not mucking out stalls or reorganizing the tack room, she's cleaning my house from cellar to attic. _My_ house, Swan!"

Emma laughs this time. There are very few designated areas of mess at Killian's place: the top of the dresser in his bedroom, the four square feet around the back door and into the laundry room, and the coffee table in front of the TV in the living room. Otherwise, Emma's not sure what Belle is cleaning, unless she's stripping everything to the floorboards and starting over. "I'm sure between the two of you, there's not a dust mite in three counties that isn't afraid for its life."

Killian grumbles on his end, something about a vacuum cleaner that she doesn't make out, but it's not really important. In a normal tone, he asks, "Is that all you called for, then?"

He doesn't sound like he's eager to get off the phone with her, though the phrasing leaves a little to be desired. Emma's mouth twists into a little frown. "No," she says, feeling petulant. "I just - it didn't feel like the whole story."

"Emma, I'm aware of your sister's tendency to jump the gun, of course it wasn't the whole story. Really, she sounded completely blindsided by the mere fact that Belle would ever consider leaving Gold in the first place," Killian says.

She barely stops herself from rolling her eyes. "Yeah, well, that's kind of what happens when you meet the love of your life on your first try and live in happily wedded bliss for the next eight years. She's a little rose-colored glasses about this kind of thing."

"I suppose so," he replies, sounding a little wistful.

There's a slightly awkward pause as she realizes they're walking towards a conversation topic she's not sure either of them are fully ready to have just yet. Well, _she_ is, a little, but she's not sure he's ready. She clears her throat. "So, what didn't you tell Mary Margaret because of her gun-jumping tendencies?"

"Ah," he says, clearing his throat. "Well, I suppose I needn't say that this is news of a highly classified sort - very few people know about it and it's preferable that it remains so."

This time she does roll her eyes. "If it's the restraining order from Regina, I know about that, she told me."

"Afraid it's a bit more complex than that, love. Belle's fairly sure that Gold paid off the judge in Neal's case. She turned everything in to the police last week."

Emma's jaw drops. "Are you serious?"

And as Killian starts to explain Belle's suspicions, Emma finds that she _has_ to stand up and start pacing around her room. She'd been feeling a little on edge since finding out about the Golds' separation, but this news just gave her too much restless energy to just _sit _with it.

_It makes sense_, she realizes. The case had gone to trial abnormally quickly - she remembers that someone had told her about Graham in September. By October there seemed to be an overabundance of evidence and Neal's lawyer had already declined to waive the right to a speedy trial - Emma would bet a lot of money that Gold had already greased the right palms for that to happen. She'd gotten a call for character witness in November and anything she'd had to say had gotten tossed out by Christmas of last year.

Things had started to move more quickly in the new year, and by March Neal had gotten sentenced. Emma had been in the middle of getting everything settled to move back to Storybrooke when Regina had called with the news. She can't remember much about the contents of that call, but Regina hadn't sounded any different or given any indication that the speed at which the whole thing had gone - murder, investigation, trial, sentencing - was anything to be concerned about. _Because it's _Maine, Emma thinks, a hysterical bubble of laughter threatening to pop. _There's nothing_ here, _of course none of us thought it was weird. This isn't New York with hundreds of backed up cases. _

"Emma?"

She blinks, stopping dead in her tracks. "Sorry, how long was I spaced?"

"Only a minute. Are you alright?" Killian asks.

Emma combs her hair back from her face, wincing when her fingers get stuck in a snarl. "Kind of… Just putting some pieces together. God, no wonder everything happened so fast."

Killian makes a noise of assent. "Aye. And why Gold stopped pressuring the police so much."

"Is she going to get in any trouble about this?" Emma asks, half-thinking aloud. She doesn't know if there's any reason for the police to suspect Belle was in on it and just cracked under pressure. If she were a detective, Emma would think it awfully convenient that Belle was out of the country for so long during the trial itself.

"Dunno," he replies. "She seemed to think it would be fine."

Her legs feel shaky - the adrenaline's wearing off - and Emma sits on the bed with a groan. She flops onto her back just as Killian says, "Don't do that, love."

"What -" She frowns for a moment, wondering why his voice sounds so pained; then it hits her and she's surprised the room doesn't glow from how quickly her face heats up. "Oh, sorry. I just - I needed to sit."

There's a weak chuckle on his end. "It's alright, it just -"

"Yeah." She knows what _it just_.

There's a slightly awkward pause that she's not sure how to move out of. Jumping from talking about a supposed criminal mastermind to accidentally turning on her sort-of ex-boyfriend is not an area she's an expert in. She hears him clear his throat. "Is this the part where I'm supposed to ask what you're doing or wearing right now?"

Smug bastard, she can _hear_ the grin in his voice. Emma rolls her eyes with a scoff. She kind of wonders why she'd even bothered to be concerned earlier; she loves him but he's completely ridiculous. "You're such a smooth operator," she drawls. "You just know how discussing a federal offense turns a girl on." He chuckles at that and she smiles at the sound. The pleasant buzz under her skin is back. "I'm just laying in bed. Which you need to do too, it's getting late."

She wonders if he's rolling his eyes too. "Aye, Mammy," Killian says, only a little sarcastic. "Have a good night, Swan."

"Killian," she says, "thank you for telling me."

"Always, love."

There's another pause, this one not so awkward and much more in the vein of neither wanting to hang up. She listens to his breathing for a moment, a fierce ache to have him here with her making it hard to breathe; the words '_I love you_' are on the tip of her tongue and it doesn't even register with her to be scared that she's _this close_ to wanting to tell him. She wonders if he feels the same.

Instead, she keeps those words to herself. It might feel right, but she knows it's not the right time. There's still wounds to heal, trust to be rebuilt. So instead she just whispers, "G'night."

She lets the phone drop onto the quilt after he hangs up. The moon's almost full, silvery light pouring in through the window as she scrubs her face with her hand. She wonders if Neal had known about his dad's involvement. They hadn't been on good terms when she left, she can't imagine anything could have gotten better while she'd been gone. _And,_ she thinks, _he spilled everything when I went to see him. If he even _suspected _there was something else up with Gold, he would have mentioned it somehow._

No, Neal probably didn't know. Emma will give him the benefit of the doubt - he's already in jail, he can't get anywhere else with this. Though, she does wonder if the case can be declared a mistrial almost a year later. Emma bits her lip, thinking. Would the state think it was worth it? Would anyone she know be willing to go through that again in a year or two?

She sits up, sighing in frustration. She's not a lawyer or a cop. They'll handle things from here on out, the best thing she can do is get ready for bed and hope nothing else catastrophic happens while she sleeps. She's not sure she can handle much else.

* * *

The week passes with no further upsets; by Thursday Emma's concerned that there hasn't been any movement on Gold yet, but David reminds her that, even in rural Maine, this is the busiest time of the year. "What's more important, going in after a well-protected millionaire when you don't have an air-tight case against him, or stopping Mary Sue Ellen from stabbing her mother-in-law because the neighbors complained?" David asks during the evening feeding.

Emma curses him out under her breath as she scoops up grain for mixing. "If you're asking me to look at it objectively, that's not gonna happen," she says.

"Then look at it practically - you can't do anything to speed it along, so just take it one day at a time," David says, catching her eye and holding her gaze for a long moment.

Finally, she nods, shoulders drooping. He's right, she's just impatient. She'd just feel better if _something_ was happening.

Henry texts her that night about coming over with a surprise on Saturday. Emma rereads the message a few times warily, about ten different scenarios running through her mind, before carefully wording her response. '_Am I going to like the surprise?'_

'_Emma you're defeating the purpose of a surprise'_

'_I don't like surprises kid.'_

The three dots appear and vanish a couple of times before he finally replies with, '_It's nothing slimy or gross.'_

Emma rolls her eyes, firing back with, '_Spoken like a true Little Brother.'_

'_I'll see u on Saturday, MM and David are babysitting Roland. Mom and Robin want me to stay too, they've got errands.'_

She approaches Saturday with some trepidation; she feels like it's justified, given the events of the last six months. She seriously doubts that Regina and Robin got a dog already, and anyway, Henry would just tell her to come over and meet it. Instead of overthinking it, she does her best to take David's advice and just take things as they come.

Saturday has her teaching a morning riding class. It's a newer class so they don't do anything more intense than practicing their trotting posts and then playing Red Light/Green Light; Emma likes that game because it's something a little different for the horses to keep them from getting bored, and she gets to change up directions enough that not everyone wins all the time - and the kids always giggle when one of the horses decides it knows how to play better than their rider does (and some days Emma's pretty sure they do know it a little better).

It's Robin who texts her when she's overseeing cool-down and heading back to untack and groom. They'll be around in a little less than an hour, so Emma figures they'll arrive by the time all the kids have finished cleaning up and gone home. At first, she thinks it's a little odd that Robin, not Henry, lets her know and she wonders if Henry's gotten grounded or something. It's not until the last of her students' parents' cars are leaving and she sees Robin's car coming up the driveway that she understands. It's Robin's car, but Henry's behind the wheel.

"Now I know why you wouldn't tell me if I'd like the surprise or not," Emma calls, walking down to where Henry's parked. He grins as he slams the door shut, ignoring his stepfather's warning about handling other people's things gently. "Congrats, kid."

"First try too," Henry says, standing a little straighter and - if Emma's not mistaken - puffing his chest out a little. "I almost messed up on maneuverability, but I caught myself in time."

"And now Regina and I have other reasons to lose sleep at night," Robin says, Roland at his side. "Though happily we still have a few more months before he can think about sneaking out in the middle of the night with one of our cars."

Emma almost says that a really determined kid will toss the rulebook out the window and drive with a learner's permit anyway, but she doesn't think it's a good idea to give Henry ideas. He gets enough on his own. Instead, she crouches down to Roland's level. "Leo's inside with Mary Margaret, and I _think_," she says, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I heard her say something about baking cookies."

Roland's eyes go wide. "Really?"

"You should go up to the house and check."

Roland wraps his arms around Robin's leg in a quick hug before practically sprinting up to the house, shouting, "Bye, Daddy!" over his shoulder as almost an afterthought. Robin eyes Emma wryly as she gets back to her feet. "Regina bakes enough for the entire county," he says. "He hardly needs Mary Margaret's baking as well."

"Mary Margaret's preparing for both a baby and the holidays," Emma points out. "You'll pry that bowl and those baking trays out of her cold, dead hands."

Robin chuckles at that. Henry gives him the keys and glances at Emma. "So what's the plan? Unless you want me to help Mary Margaret bake cookies too?"

The corner of Emma's mouth lifts at that. She notices the way Robin's lingering and glancing at Henry and it seems like there's something he wants to talk to her about privately. Emma turns her attention back to her Little. "Do me a favor and go spot-check the first seven horses in Mary Margaret's barn," she says. "I had a class today and the faster we make sure the kids cleaned up properly the faster we can get saddled up and take a few of the other horses out for a ride, alright?"

Henry nods. "Sounds good. Should I tack anyone up?"

"If I'm not there, start tacking up Buttercup and Teddy Bear, they need a good stretch." As Henry retreats down the yard to the barn, Emma turns back to Robin. "So what's up?"

Robin slips his hands into his back pocket, leaning forward and glancing around like he's waiting for someone to pop out and surprise them. "Regina and I are going to look at some shelters today," he says quietly. "We're not looking to bring anyone home today, but we're going to get an idea."

Emma fights, and fails, to hide a smile. "Oh please," she says, her voice just as soft. "You're going to come home with a whole pack of dogs. One too many pairs of big brown eyes and you'll have to borrow a horse trailer to bring them all home."

Robin looks pointedly at her. "From your lips to God's ears. And from mine, don't even suggest such a thing or it's sure to come true."

She starts to grin. "Please, you're gonna come home with like, five huge sheepdogs. It'll be a sea of fur. You'll have to bring them all in to PetSmart on the way home and you'll have to buy all of the squeaky toys -"

Robin lets his head fall back dramatically. "No, please, not the squeaky toys -"

Emma laughs. "Seriously, though, I will be very surprised if you don't come home with a dog today."

He makes a face. "It's up to Regina. She doesn't seem very keen to adopt today and I believe her."

She hums an agreeable sound but she still doesn't entirely believe him. But maybe just by Emma saying they'll bring a dog home today, Regina will somehow know and want to prove her wrong. Stranger things have happened. "So my job is to steer any questions about it in another direction," she says.

"Yes, though we've been careful in covering our tracks. It should be fine, but just in case." Emma mimes zipping and locking her lips, and Robin smiles. "Thank you. I'll let you or Mary Margaret know when we're on our way back, it's doubtless Henry will want to drive us home."

He's halfway in the car when he pauses, calling, "Oh, and I warn you that he'll probably try and have you teach him manual. He's been after Will Scarlett about that for ages."

Emma nods, waving as he gets in the car and starts it. She lingers for a moment, making sure Robin gets down the driveway okay - the snow melted a bit recently, and between that and all the trucks in and out all day the driveway's a God-awful mess - before walking back to the barn.

Henry's got Buttercup and Bear in a pair of crossties. "Had to do a few quick brushings, but they did good," he informs her as he hefts a saddle up onto Bear's back.

Emma watches Henry discretely while they finish saddling up. He doesn't look so tired anymore, chattering on about the details of the permit test. She's surprised he managed to keep that a secret from her. She's been trying to make more time for him over the last couple of weeks without being smothering and she's not sure if she's been succeeding. But he seems happy - happi_er_ \- and really, at the end of the day, that's all that really matters.

He tosses her one of the spare helmets and they lead Bear and Buttercup out into the chilly afternoon. "I feel like I haven't done this in months," Henry says, hauling himself up into Bear's saddle.

Emma mounts up as well, shifting a little in the saddle to get her bulky coat untwisted. "Knowing your mom, that's probably not far off. Don't worry, I won't leave you behind."

He shoots a dirty look over his shoulder and she just smiles innocently, signaling Buttercup to start walking.

They pick their way carefully over the fields. Emma spends just as much time listening to Henry talk about school as she does scanning the terrain; she doesn't want anyone to get stuck in the mud or step on an icy patch. She knows it's her worry controlling her actions, but she doesn't want to set Henry back another six weeks with more possible broken bones. "Can I ask a weird question?" Henry asks, breaking through her thoughts.

"I think you just did, but shoot."

He and Bear pull up next to her and Buttercup. "Is there something going on with Belle and Killian?"

Emma glances at him sharply. "No, why?"

Henry shrugs. "She's at the Horn like, a lot recently. I thought Will had a thing for her, but maybe she's got a thing for Killian. But she's married to Mr. Gold, so I guess that'd be cheating no matter what. But I just thought it was weird."

Emma frowns, unsure how to have this conversation - _if_ she should even have this conversation - but she figures if he's asking then it's probably better to hear it from her. "Belle's not cheating on Gold," she says carefully, wheeling Buttercup around a muddy patch. "She's leaving him, and she's staying with Killian until things get figured out."

Henry's eyebrows go up, but all he says is, "Oh." Almost as an afterthought, he adds, "Well, that's good then. Right?"

She shrugs. 'Good' is relative at this point, it's all going to depend on which way the chips fall. "If this makes her happy, then yeah," she says.

"But why's she staying with _Killian_?"

Emma chews on the inside of her lip. If she tells Henry, then there's a whole can of worms she's not sure if anyone will be happy with being opened. If she doesn't, then there might be a fight later about her lying to him by omission.

Logically, she knows that if he gets mad at her then he'll eventually get over it. She's the adult, he's the kid she's sometimes responsible for. Kids get mad at their caretakers all the time.

But she made him a promise a long time ago. She promised she'd never lie to him.

And Henry's not so much of a little kid anymore.

"Okay, so keep this on the downlow," Emma starts, to which Henry scoffs and rolls his eyes. "People still say that, don't even start."

"Yeah, yeah."

"_Especially_ with your mom," she adds. "She might actually kill me for this."

She tries to spare him all of the dirty details; but really, Henry's been near the center of all of this since it started last fall. The more she talks, the more she comes to the conclusion that telling him is the right move. He'd seen what happened to Graham; he deserves to know that justice had been mishandled. He was directly affected by Gold's misplaced, misjudged ideas of parenting, he deserves to know what's being done to protect him in the future. Even if everything's being handled by his mother, by Belle, and hopefully by the law, it all directly affects Henry in one way or another.

They've turned the horses around and started plodding back to the farm by the time Emma finishes. Henry's face is set, his mouth drawn in a thin line while he studies his saddle horn. "So Mr. Gold might get arrested?"

"Belle thinks there's a really good chance of that, yeah."

He's silent for a long while. Emma wonders how he's putting it together, what conclusions he's drawing, but just before she can ask if he has any more questions about what could happen next, Henry looks up. "Good," he says finally. She can't see his face directly, but he's got something akin to a thousand-yard stare, a line creased between his eyebrows.

Henry nudges Teddy Bear with his heels, picking up the pace to a trot. Emma lets him go ahead, keeping Buttercup at a walk as she watches him wistfully. The ground's a little more hard-packed up ahead and she sees him realize the advantage, signaling Bear into a canter; she knows he's taking his anger out in feeling the cold wind whipping at his face, hoping he can leave it all behind and run too quickly for his emotions to catch up with him.

She's seen that stare in the mirror, when she was not a whole lot older than Henry. And she's ridden like that before, hard and fast with the wind in her hair and feeling like nothing can touch her. All the anger in the world doesn't matter with a good horse under you and nothing but gravity keeping you tethered to the ground.

With a sigh, Emma nudges Buttercup to trot. With a little bit of luck, maybe Henry will do better than her.

Maybe he can actually outrun his demons.

* * *

**Thanks again, now let's see which comes first: the end of the semester or the next chapter.**


	24. December 6-19

**Thank you, beta idoltina for word warring with me to get this chapter finished in a timely manner and actually adding commas this time instead of taking them away from me. 0:)**

* * *

With the horses groomed, the tack polished and put away, and the scent of the horses and the polish itself lingering around them, Emma declares it's time to head back up to the house for cocoa. She hasn't gotten a text from Robin or Regina yet, so she figures there's enough time to just hang around. _Maybe Mary Margaret can work her magic on him_, Emma thinks as she puts her arm around Henry's shoulders and squeezes him briefly.

He hadn't said much as they cleaned up after their ride. Emma let him have that, understanding that he wouldn't want to be talked at unnecessarily. They're alike in that way. Using barn chores to work through their anger is something else they have in common; she's still not sure if she's glad Henry had picked that habit up from her or not.

"Isn't that Dr. Lucas' truck?" Henry asks as they trudge through the mud.

Emma looks where he's looking and nods when she recognizes it. "Bet she's here to check on Princess," she says. "Wanna go say hi?"

Henry nods and they change course, heading for the main barn. Not for the first time in the last several weeks, Emma notices that she doesn't feel so uneasy near the foaling stalls anymore. Not since she and David talked, anyway. She hides a wry smile: maybe there's something to that idea of talking about something that's been bothering you for so long.

"If it's not one of you, it's the other," Dr. Lucas comments as they draw up to the stall door. "I just sent your nosy brother away."

Emma smiles slightly. The ultrasound machine is set up on the floor, Princess tethered to the wall by a lead line on her halter. She clicks her tongue, her smile widening when Princess' ears swivel back towards her. "Well, seeing as how this is his horse and an at-risk pregnancy, I can't imagine why he'd be nosy."

Dr. Lucas gives Emma a stern look over her glasses and Emma grins outright. "She's about a month out and she's being very shy with an audience, so shoo, please," Dr. Lucas says.

"Wait," Henry says as Emma moves to leave her to it. "I thought you weren't supposed to do regular check-ups for horses, like how people do."

Dr. Lucas glances at him. "Normally, no," she says slowly. "If I were here for another reason, I might do a quick physical check, but otherwise you're right. But Princess lost her last foal and has had a few issues since, so we're just being cautious. Better to know if there's anything we need to be on alert for come the end of the month."

Emma's palms feel sweaty even with the chill in the air. God, she wasn't even here, didn't even know about the second foal, and she's still a wreck over the loss of it. She takes a few deep breaths to settle her nerves; the foaling will go as fine as most of them do. There's only a fraction of a percent of a chance that something will go wrong at this stage in the game. "And is there?" she asks. "Anything to be on alert for?"

"I was about to check before you two busybodies came in."

"Can I watch?" Henry's already unlatching the stall door. "I don't know a lot about this stuff yet but I've been thinking about it lately and -"

Dr. Lucas peers at him as he opens the stall door a fraction of an inch. He freezes, and Emma glances between the two. Dr. Lucas is giving him a look she knows well - assessing Henry, making sure he's up for it, and judging whether or not he's worthy of this much of her time. Emma's been on the receiving end of that look plenty of times over the years, usually right before getting a lesson. And Emma's a little concerned about Henry too, considering the last time he'd helped with a medical procedure, though an ultrasound was much less invasive or painful than an abscessed leg. "All right, boy, if you're feeling up to it," Dr. Lucas says finally. Henry grins and lets himself into the stall. She gestures. "Hand me the transducer."

"The what?"

Emma leans on the door, a small smile growing as she watches Dr. Lucas give Henry a crash course in equine medicine, this lesson very similar to one she'd taught Emma almost ten years ago. She points out the visible signs and what David (and Emma) will be looking for when it comes closer to foaling time, areas where Princess is swelling and her skin color is changing. "Might not be until January," Dr. Lucas explains, a thoughtful frown on her face. "Udder's still a bit on the small side, but only time will tell. Little ones make up their own minds on when they're ready to be born, doesn't matter the species."

"Don't tell Mary Margaret's little one that," Emma warns. "Leo was late, she's kind of hoping the same thing will happen this time."

Dr. Lucas chuckles. "Personally, I'd find it very funny if Princess _and_ Mary went into labor at the same time. David wouldn't, but I'd have a laugh. Been chuckling at how close their due dates are as it is."

Emma rolls her eyes. She's pretty sure David would have a conniption if that happened. At least horses have short labors. "David'll like it if it's January," Henry says over his shoulder. "The foal, I mean. It'll be stronger against the competition. Dunno about the baby."

"He'll be happy as long as it's healthy," Emma says. "_Both_ babies."

Dr. Lucas goes back to explaining to Henry while she starts the ultrasound itself. He grins when the sounds of both Princess and her foal's heartbeats fill the air, and it makes Emma smile when she realizes both beats sound strong and healthy. The rhythmic thumping eases some of her lingering worry, and she feels the tension leave her shoulders. She's so focused on the sound that she doesn't hear the footsteps coming up next to her. "Hey." David's quiet voice makes Emma jump. "Sorry," he says, grinning apologetically. "The point of whispering was to avoid that. How's it going?"

"Henry's getting an obstetrics lesson," Emma says. "Everything looks good so far."

"Good."

"Dr. Lucas might have cursed you."

She glances at him in time to catch the raised eyebrow. "Pardon? Since when is my vet a witch?"

Emma grins. "She was talking about how all babies make up their own minds on when to be born and it might have extended to Mary Margaret. I would possibly watch out for a witchcraft fee on the bill if both your wife and your mare go into labor at the same time."

David rolls his eyes while she giggles. "Kindly speak no more on the topic or I'm going to be a nervous wreck until February."

"Like you aren't already."

"More of a nervous wreck, then."

Dr. Lucas clears her throat. "I thought I told you to shoo," she says, and David grins again. She sighs, then instructs Henry to pack things away for her and carry the ultrasound machine back to the truck for her. "Put those muscles to use, make sure that arm of yours works properly again," she tells him. She turns her attention back to David. "Everything checks out. Placenta's good, theoretically the only thing we have to worry about is a breech birth, but that's not anything we can know or change until showtime."

Emma opens the stall door for Henry, letting him head out to the truck on his own. Dr. Lucas unties the lead line from the wall, murmuring softly at Princess and patting her nose. "He's a good boy," Dr. Lucas says, nodding in the direction Henry went. "He wants to learn."

David nods. "I was surprised to see him in there, after everything."

"He still loves it," Emma explains. "I think he might respect it more after what happened, but he's just as enthusiastic. He was talking to Killian about coming back to work after the new year. He misses it."

"It's in his blood," Dr. Lucas says, coming to the door with Princess in tow. Emma opens the door for them, allowing the vet to lead Princess out into the row. "His mother's the same way, though she's a bit more restrained about it. Something like that can't be taught." She pauses, frowning thoughtfully. "And I wonder if his mother wouldn't mind him tagging along with me here or there, learn a few things."

Emma raises an eyebrow. In a way, she's more surprised that Henry hasn't brought up the idea in the past; he's handy with minor treatments he's picked up from the guys at the Horn. At the same time, though, he's always been more focused on the riding part than the care and treatment part. "Are you sure?"

She receives a lovingly exasperated look for her question. "Wouldn't offer if the thought wasn't there, little lady. Besides, Ruby's doing her own thing now. She helps at the clinic when she can, does a lot of the filing and scheduling nonsense, but it's not the same as having an assistant in the field." Dr. Lucas rubs the knuckles of one hand with her thumb with a wistful sigh. "I'm not as spry as I used to be, hard as that can be to admit. I could use someone to help with the heavy lifting. If that someone was willing to learn, it would be beneficial to both of us."

David crosses his arms. "Well, I don't see the harm in asking. If nothing else, give him something else to focus on besides getting up in the saddle."

"And Regina might appreciate it more coming from you," Emma says, remembering times in the past when Henry had wanted to do something with her and meeting a stubborn resistance until Emma had spoken up.

"It's a thought for now," Dr. Lucas says. She clicks her tongue, causing Princess' ears to prick up to attention. "I'll let this old lady out into the paddock and get out of here. Still got a few places to hit before it gets too late."

With the sun already going down, Emma isn't so sure letting Princess out to pasture is the best idea; but she's not going to argue with someone who's been doing this for longer than she's been alive and both vet and horse are halfway to the door by now. Instead, she touches David's arm briefly, saying, "I'm gonna go raid the kitchen. Call up if you need help with anything."

"Go spend time with the boys, give Mary Margaret a break."

Emma smiles, then heads out towards the driveway. Time to grab Henry and make good on the promise of hot cocoa.

-/-

Killian sits on the back porch, grateful for the darkness and the cold and a quiet moment alone. The cold numbs him against the fierce ache in his chest, he doesn't dare let the tears in his eyes loose for fear of them freezing on his cheeks.

He hasn't spoken of losing his family to anyone in years - telling Emma what happened to Liam and Milah, that his parents are long dead, is the closest he's come to the full story. Coming clean to Tink today has left him feeling drained, like someone cracked his chest wide open. And with Belle living here now, he just needs a moment to himself; the lass is understanding and would be more than happy to give him space to put himself back together, but he finds that for now, it's easier just to let the cold and the darkness wash over him.

He never knew before coming to America that cold - real, bone-aching cold - has a scent. Under the normal scents of the farm - the hay and the horses and the mud, the tack cleaners and the manure - is something sharp. _Crisp_ has a scent, one that pricks at his nose and he feels the chill flow all the way down to his toes, and it's the most _baffling_ thing.

He breathes deep anyway, savoring the scent and letting the cold settle in his lungs and loosening a knot that's settled somewhere in his heart.

It's not until his fingers are long stiff from cold and a lack of movement that he decides he's put himself together enough to go inside. The cats are not there to pester him, so he can only assume they're making nuisances of themselves with Belle. There's food leftover in their dishes as well, indicating that Belle must have fed them while he was away. He's tried to talk her out of doing _everything_ around the house, but she's a stubborn lass with odd ideas about how to earn her keep. Killian's fairly certain she's done everything but re-line the cabinets and scrub the grout between the tiles, and truly there's only a matter of time before that happens.

And every time he's argued with her about it, she says the same thing: "I'm playing least-in-sight, which means I can't go down to the barns unless it's between certain hours and I can't go into town. What else am I supposed to do with myself?"

Perhaps tomorrow he'll offer to take her to the Nolans' for the day, let her do her work on someone _else's_ horses for a change. He's certain Mary Margaret or David could put an extra pair of hands to work.

He sheds his coat and boots, distractedly thinking about what to put together for dinner, when he hears a hiccup in the living room.

Killian pokes his head through the doorway, opening his mouth to ask if Belle had eaten anything yet, but he immediately closes it when he realizes she's crying. "Hey," he says, immediately concerned. He slips through the door, walking over to the couch with caution. "What happened, lass?"

Belle glances up, startled. There are tear tracks on her cheeks and one cat draped across the back of the couch with her tail curled around one side of Belle's neck, the other curled up on Belle's lap and purring away. Killian hesitates at the side of the couch, unsure if he should leave her to it or if she needs human company. "Sorry," he says, scratching at the itchy spot under his ear. "If you'd rather I left -"

"No, it's - you just caught me off-guard, I suppose," she says, looking back down. "I didn't hear you come in."

Killian gingerly sits next to her. Am chirrups at him from Belle's lap. "Hush, darling, you have to share eventually," he tells her softly. Belle giggles and sniffles. He glances up at her. "D'you want to talk about it?"

"It's silly," Belle says, rubbing her nose on the back of her hand. Killian grimaces and pulls out his handkerchief - a bit dirty, but it'll service until they get tissues. She accepts it with a small 'thanks' and rubs it on her nose. She doesn't bother to dry her cheeks, not while more tears slip out. "I had a phone call from the police earlier. They arrested Robert."

Killian's eyebrows go up but he doesn't say anything, unsure how she wants him to respond. It's taken longer than he expected for a move to be made, but truly he's more surprised that a move was made at all. Gold's a powerful man. Belle sniffles again. "He went quietly, they said, already asked for his lawyer. I called Regina shortly after to see if I needed to do anything, but she said I should keep low for a while. I'm supposed to be on the other side of the country, so making any moves might be suspicious.

"Then he called me. I didn't answer."

She says that last part in almost a whisper, her voice breaking and making his heart break for her. She's in a rough position; he doesn't even know the kind of guts it would take to turn on someone you pledged yourself to in front of God and country and everyone you knew. "You did the right thing, lass," Killian says softly.

"I know that, truly, but… Part of me doesn't - it's silly," she finishes, sniffling and swiping at her cheeks with her fingers.

His heart aches, wishing he could do more than this, but he can only reach over and put his arm around her shoulders, ignoring Si's disgruntled growl as he pulls her in close to his side. Belle leans her head on his shoulder and he rests his cheek on her head. "It's not silly," he tells her. "It's a brave thing you've done. An incredibly difficult thing, aye, but brave."

"I still love him," she says softly and the admission doesn't surprise him so much as it just makes him feel sorry for her and nothing but anger towards Gold. "Is it awful that I know all these things he's done, the hurt he's caused people I care about, and I still love him? What kind of person loves someone after that?"

Truly, no one deserves the love of this woman less than Robert Gold. That someone with such a huge heart should be saddled with someone with the heart of a raisin is nothing short of tragedy. Killian moves slightly, pressing his lips to her hair. "I think that just makes you human, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You know him better than any of us, what good is in him and all of the bad, and yet _you_ were the one who chose to take action."

"I still feel awful."

"I didn't say you shouldn't," Killian says, and he realizes that he's parroting what Tink had said earlier that afternoon. He'd felt awful speaking of his family, like every inch of skin was an exposed nerve and everything _hurt_, but Tink had said it was _okay_ to feel that way. She'd explained that she'd be more concerned if he didn't feel so much after explaining the loss of his family, that allowing himself to bear the full brunt of the loss was actually _healthy_. He didn't feel quite the same way, but he expected she'd encouraged him to open up about the subject during his dry spell for that very reason. "It's okay to feel hurt, betrayed even," he continues. "He's still your husband, there's something that made you love him and that doesn't diminish against all the bad he's done. The important thing is that you recognized the bad outweighed the good and you did something about that."

She falls silent after that, still sniffling every so often. He doesn't mind it so much when she gets his shirt wet, just keeps his arm around her and holds her fast, giving her something to ground her as she cries it all out.

He wonders what the next step is. With Gold arrested, does he have a chance at bail? Is it safe for Belle to be out and about or should she continue to lay low here? What of the rest of her things at their house? Should they go get anything, or would it raise suspicion? Will had brought over a cheap bed frame and a mattress the other day, refusing repayment for it and giving Belle something more substantial than the couch to sleep on. The guest bedroom was still fairly sparse, with only her bags and the bed and the closet half-full of her things, but it gave her some privacy all the same. It wasn't as if Killian had been using the other rooms upstairs.

After a few more minutes, Belle laughs wetly, lifting her head. "Sorry," she says softly.

"It's just a shirt, lass. No harm done."

"No, it's not that," she says. "I feel a bit silly. I have three master's degrees in all sorts of psychology and here you are counseling me on expressing basic emotions." She laughs a little again. "And after your session today… Sorry, this happened at a bit of a bad time."

Killian shakes his head. He doesn't explain that he'd already done a bit of stitching himself back together out on the porch; she doesn't need that extra concern on top of all of this. And letting him focus on something other than the ghosts of his past had helped, in a way. "Sometimes we're too close to a thing to look at it properly," he says instead. "Humans are a bit myopic in that way. You just needed redirection."

"True," Belle says, looking down and smiling slightly. "Thank you, Killian."

"Truly, it's no matter. If you were a bother, I'd have kicked you to the curb ages ago."

But she's shaking his head and he raises an eyebrow. "You've got too kind a heart for that," she says.

He scoffs and that spot under his ear itches again, but his arm's around her and he can't quite get at it. "Says you. I was going to offer to make dinner, but you're here spouting falsehoods so perhaps you don't deserve a share."

Belle laughs and shoves at him; he winces when she gets the edge of a fresh bruise (Scamp had been a bit too affectionate in his greeting headbutt that morning) but allows her to get to her feet, picking Am up as she goes. "Thanks, but I think I'm going to shower and have an early night. I'll have something ready for you for breakfast instead, I'll be up early enough."

"Aye, have it your way then." If she'll be up with the sun, he can mention his earlier idea of the Nolans over a cuppa. "Goodnight, lass."

She smiles, cradling Am to her chest, and heads upstairs. After a moment, Si hops down from the couch and trots after them. Killian smiles, shaking his head ruefully before getting up and going to put something together for dinner.

-/-

When she checks her phone on Friday morning, Emma's heart does a weird little fluttery thing. Killian had texted her at dawn about coming over at some point that day. And it's stupid that her heart's doing that fluttery thing because him coming over could mean any number of things. It doesn't necessarily mean he's coming over to see her; he could be dropping off something for David, or David asked him to come consult on something. She ignores the part of her that asks why Killian would text her if that were the case - maybe he wanted to give her a heads up, not surprise her.

Maybe he'd wanted to let her know because he wants to see her.

Whatever she'd thought that morning, Emma doesn't expect him to come over to drop Belle off. She tells herself she's not disappointed: the brakes are still on while he heals and Emma's fine with that. Mostly. The way her heart had skipped a beat when she'd seen the text from him said otherwise. The way his hair is seven kinds of disheveled and he somehow manages to look all masculine and delicious in three layers of warm clothes and Emma's trying not to squirm at the sight says otherwise.

She's _not_ disappointed, because it's not like Belle's an unwelcome extra set of hands, but even so Fridays tend to be a bit busy. Emma doesn't know off the top of her head what Belle should even be on the lookout for. "I have three classes today," she warns Belle as the three of them walk down to Mary Margaret's barn together.

"Snow Dancer isn't a riding horse," Belle retorts, ducking into the tack room for supplies. "Mary has three other fellows I can have a look at today while you and the kids have fun. I don't need anyone to hover. I can do some precursory checks and be nosy without anyone's help. Or if you think I'm getting underfoot then just let me know. I expect David won't mind me having a look over in the main barn."

Well, that's true enough. And it's only noon; Mary Margaret will be home after three, and either Belle will be done by then or she can let Belle know what else needs looked at. Emma just doesn't want her to feel like she's been set loose on the horses and left to fend for herself. "If you're sure," she says, then glances expectantly at Killian. "And don't you have something to do today?"

He grins and she feels herself relaxing. She hears Belle giggle as she brushes past them and glares over her shoulder as the other woman goes to work, but her heart isn't in it. _David's right, everyone does know about us_, Emma thinks with an inward sigh. "Free as a bird, love, and twice as handsome," Killian says, drawing her attention back to him.

Emma rolls her eyes at his posturing; he's ridiculous and she's not giving him the satisfaction of knowing that she wants to strip him out of his heavy winter clothes right here in the barn. "Depends on the bird," she deadpans, going into the tack room to distract herself from such thoughts; she's got an older class coming in an hour and she wants to make sure she doesn't need to replace anything on the saddles.

As she'd hoped, Killian follows her inside. "You wound me, Swan," he says, his tone mock-hurt.

Though they both know they're both just messing around, his tone makes her heart twist anyway. Everything is still too fresh for her not to be overly sensitive about what she might say to him, his reactions. "You know I don't mean that, right?" she asks softly, cautiously meeting his eyes as she hefts a saddle down from its rack.

He doesn't say anything, but his eyes are kind as he nods his understanding. And he doesn't stand idly by as she starts checking the straps and irons; he picks a saddle and starts going over it inch-by-inch as well. "I do have another purpose for being here," he says softly after a few minutes.

Emma glances up at him as she picks at some dirt caught in a seam. "What's up?"

"Gold was arrested yesterday."

The dirt-pick almost falls right out of her fingers, but she manages to hold on to it in time. It's been ages since Belle moved in at the horn; despite everyone warning her about patience, she wasn't expecting anything at all at this point. Gold's too slick for it; she would have bet he wormed his way out days ago. "You're serious?" she asks, keeping her voice low.

"Aye," Killian says, nodding. "Poor lass was very upset about it."

Emma's brow furrows. Belle was the one to turn him in; it doesn't make sense that she'd get upset over the arrest finally happening - unless she regrets it? "Why?"

"She still loves him - part of her anyway," Killian says with a shrug, bending down to pick up a saddle string. "She's understandably upset."

Emma shakes her head. She's not sure she could still be in love with someone who'd not only severely endangered a child but also paid off the feds. Like all those mob wives shows - seriously, they know their husbands or dads are criminals and they just move on with their lives? Frankly, Emma would be glad to be rid of Gold if she were in Belle's shoes.

Not that she'd ever marry that man to be in Belle's shoes. Hell, she'd avoided a similar pair of shoes years ago, hadn't she?

"So is she in the clear now, or is she still staying with you still?" Emma asks instead. She's pretty sure she doesn't sound jealous or needy or anything like that - or she hopes she doesn't, because she's honestly just curious. The long-term plan was never laid out for her.

"She says Regina said to keep laying low for now," Killian tells her, giving no indication that he thought she was overstepping. "She made a few phone calls this morning. If the charges stick and he's jailed until a formal hearing, then she might be in a better situation."

Emma glances up again. "And in English that means… what, exactly?"

He shrugs. "You'd have to ask her, honestly. I didn't think it fit to ask."

"Helpful."

"Try not to shoot the messenger, love."

Emma sighs. "Sorry," she says. "I just don't like waiting or not knowing what's going on."

There's a twinkle in his eye that means he's about to tease her and she reaches over and nudges him in the shoulder with her fist before he can say anything. He laughs and she smiles. Feeling emboldened, she asks, "How are you?"

Killian looks at her, one eyebrow raised quizzically. "Fine, love," he says, flashing a brief grin.

"Really? With Belle there and… everything?" She doesn't say 'therapy' because it's probably none of her business how he's doing there, but she just wants to make sure he's holding up. "Because if you're having trouble with anything, you can call me. Or we can take Belle off your hands or - or something. Whatever you need."

His expression changes, more puzzled and searching, like he's reading between the lines of what she's saying. She doesn't even know if there is a between the lines; she's just offering to help however she can, if he'll take it. "Swan, you're popping out the cracks here as it is," Killian says after a long moment. "I have the space, truly, and Belle's no trouble at all. And the cats would scratch me half to death if I let their new best friend leave."

Emma notices that he ignores the rest, frowning as she gets up to switch saddles. Maybe she takes a little longer than necessary, smoothing out all the straps and making sure everything lays just right, because suddenly he's right there behind her, placing his hand over hers on the saddle. Her breath catches in her throat as she feels him, warm and solid, press up against her back. "Love, I don't mean to offend," Killian says quietly, though she feels his words rumble in his chest more than she hears them right near her ear. "I appreciate your offer to help. I simply don't have an excuse to take you up on it at the moment."

And now she feels guilty and it pinches under her collarbone. She flexes her hand under his and he slots his fingers between hers, squeezing together slightly in a mockery of holding hands. "I mean it," she says, trying desperately not to lean back against him and maybe failing a little bit. She doesn't want to push him, not if he's not ready, but God she misses him. "Anything you need, just holler, okay?"

"Even at three in the morning?" he asks, his voice low and teasing in her ear.

She hums a little, a small smile on her lips. "Well, you can _try_." Again, she feels him chuckle more than she hears it. He knows her sleeping habits well. "But you're up at five anyway, so maybe try to sleep that last two hours."

"I shall endeavor to."

They stand like that a little longer, closely and slightly leaning into one another, hands pressed together and almost entwined, until Killian moves away first. Emma misses his warmth almost instantly. "So, if you've classes this afternoon, why bother checking saddles now?" he asks, hefting one down for her.

Emma accepts it, going to sit with her tools again. "Oh, David and Mary Margaret are driving down to Boston to visit Eva - you met her, right? Mary Margaret's mom?"

"Aye, lovely woman at your nephew's birthday. What's there, then?"

"Christmas," Emma says, picking at more missed dirt - seriously how lax have these kids been? Sure they're kids, but _still_. "They're going for Christmas and New Year's and I'm trying to make sure we have plenty of supplies in stock in case disaster strikes and I'm the only one here to manage it all."

She hears his boot scuff against the floor. "You're staying here?" he asks quietly. "Alone?"

She glances over her shoulder and she can't quite get a read on the look he's giving her - part pity, maybe? Definitely sad. Emma smiles reassuringly. "Yeah. Trust me, I love my brother but his mother-in-law drives me nuts outside of small doses. I cannot be expected to survive a week in the Blanchard household."

His expression softens into something less sad, but he still looks like he feels bad for her. Her heart aches and she feels worse about making him feel bad for her than she does about missing Christmas. It's never been her favorite holiday - it's about family and she was a foster kid for most of her early life, after all - though she has a few fond memories after coming to live here. She doesn't really mind missing out on the holiday with Mary Margaret's family. "Hey," Emma says softly. "It's okay. I was asked and turned it down, they understand. David does, anyway. He'll be able to be away easier if I stay here. Phillip and the guys are good on their own, I'm just an extra pair of eyes. And besides," she adds, smiling mischievously, "I might be a grandma again and I don't want to miss that."

Killian's brow furrows for a moment and then understanding dawns on his face. "Ah, your horse. Bloody hell, it's that time already. How is she?"

He straddles the bench opposite her, another saddle of his own to care for while she fills him in on Princess. It's always fascinating to watch him work with his hands and have a conversation about something else entirely. Emma can hardly pick dirt out of the stitches; meanwhile he's redoing an entire stirrup while they're talking. "Dr. Lucas is just worried about breeching now, but we can't do anything about it until it's time," Emma finishes with a small sigh. "So I'll probably be sleeping down here after Christmas, keeping an ear out and her on speed dial."

Killian catches her gaze and he lifts one corner of his mouth in a smile. "You can call me if you need to, Swan," he says and though his expression is light, his tone is serious. "Breech birth's a nasty thing, definitely scary when it's just you. And the good doctor might not mind another pair of hands."

She smiles as her offer to help is tossed back in return. "It's not guaranteed, but I'll keep that in mind," Emma says. "Dr. Lucas would probably appreciate the help too."

He's smiling in that way that makes her feel like the only person in the world that matters, and she finds she can't look away. Her eyes flick down to his lips once or twice and she knows he notices because she sees his lips move as he breathes in sharply. She's seriously debating just saying _fuck it _and kissing him right then, but her phone alarm is going off, reminding her that it's only ten minutes until class starts and her students will be arriving any minute now.

Emma mutters curses under her breath as she fumbles to pull the damn thing out of her pocket and she swears she hears Killian muttering his own curse or two over the obnoxious marimbas. It makes her feel a bit better to know they were possibly on the same page, like maybe they'll be done with waiting soon and she won't have to feel guilty about wanting him so much anymore. When she finally silences her phone, she glances up at him apologetically. "I have class coming," she says softly.

"Aye, I should probably get out of your hair then," he says, like it's the last possible thing he wants to do.

"Is Belle alright to -"

"Will's coming for her later," Killian says, and his smile is an apology.

Emma nods, trying not to feel disappointed again. "Right. Okay. I'll talk to you later then."

"Aye. I'll let you know if I need anything?"

She smiles, nodding. "Yeah, anything."

She hears footsteps in the barn and knows it's her class coming in, and she really just wants to swear at everyone for interrupting her today, but that would be _inappropriate _or whatever. So instead of kissing the bejesus out of him like she wants to, Emma gets to her feet and goes to greet the first students of the afternoon.

There's a slight commotion as her first two students fight over which horse they get to ride, but Emma has them draw straws to sort it out. When she sends them to the tack room to get their riding equipment, she sees that Killian has gone.

She tries not to feel disappointed at that.

(She fails.)

* * *

The next week passes quietly enough. As Christmas looms closer, Emma trades time between classes and barn time and doing a bit of shopping for her family - it's seriously hard to buy for a six-year old when his interests seem to change almost daily now. Roland seems to have gotten Leo on board with his Transformers, so she hopes the two dinosaur robots she managed to find hidden at Toys R' Us fill up enough of Leo's Venn diagram of interests to keep her at favorite aunt status. Not that he has any other aunts to compete with, but Emma's got a bit to make up for with missing the last few Christmases with him.

Belle also starts spending a bit more time at the Point. Again, an extra pair of hands is never unwelcome, particularly ones as skilled as hers. As the Downs have closed for the season, there's more travel involved to race the Point's horses. Horses in transit often come home with a few more bumps or bruises than when they'd left, and David's more than happy to have Belle around to make sure it's nothing serious or give minor treatments. The moment Belle had arrived on Friday morning, for instance, she'd promptly shooed David away from his fussing, making Emma bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. David had just grumbled about no one letting him take care of his own damn horses, and Belle had simply retorted that this was precisely why Killian had sent her off to bother David instead.

So now, Emma's helping Belle with a few of the horses with swollen tendons in the main barn; Dr. Lucas is stopping by in the afternoon for a full check, but there's some prep work that Emma and Belle can do to make her job easier. They chat about what needs to be done before Emma has to leave to prep for her afternoon classes, until she asks Belle about the fact that she'd driven her own car to the Point today, instead of being driven. Belle explains that it had been stashed under a tarp in one of the unused barns at the Horn. "Seriously, that's not a bit much?" Emma asks, her arms full of ice packs for leg wraps.

Belle sighs, sticking a few polo wraps in her pockets. "You'd think so, but Will wanted to be sure. It's almost worrying, how thoroughly he covered our tracks."

Emma snorts, dumping her packs in a bucket for easier carrying. "He's gotten in enough shit to figure out how to keep out of trouble," Emma says about Will. "It's not surprising, I guess, it's just… a lot."

"Well, it kept Robert from knowing I wasn't actually out of town," Belle says. "It paid off."

They walk down the row, stopping in King's stall first. Belle croons at him, sweet-talking King in just the way he likes. Emma smiles and barely keeps herself from rolling her eyes at the way his ears prick forward; he's a big baby, loves this kind of attention. King noses around Belle's shirt and affectionately headbutts her while she runs her hands soothingly across his head and neck. "You'll be good for us, won't you? Big strong fellow, you're smart enough to know we're just trying to help," Belle says softly, slowly moving down his flank towards his hind leg.

Emma sets the bucket down within Belle's reach while she moves to King's head, stroking him softly to keep him occupied while Belle checks the swelling. "Can I ask something?" Emma asks after a few minutes.

"You just did," Belle says with a grunt, shifting from a crouch to sitting on her knees.

This time Emma does roll her eyes. "Okay, smarty-pants," she says as Belle chuckles.

"Go ahead, I know you've been dying to all week."

"Why?" Emma asks. "Why now, why… He didn't do anything to you. And yet you turned him in, and you were still upset when he got arrested."

Belle's hand stills in her search for an ice pack. Emma keeps hold of King's halter, smoothing his mane while Belle stares at the hay strewn across the floor. After a minute, she grabs a pack and gets to work in wrapping it. "Things are very black and white for you, aren't they?" Belle asks.

Now it's Emma's turn to go still. It's not an accusatory question, but it stings a little just the truth tends to do that. She's right: Emma's worldview is a bit black and white, but when she spent fifteen years living day-to-day in a place where people wanted her or they didn't, where she ate or she didn't, where no one explained the nuances or the whys of how she was treated or even expected her to understand more complex reasons… She doesn't expect her past to absolve her of thinking that way, but it's been fourteen years since the Nolans took her in, and she's still trying to unlearn that kind of outlook. "I guess," Emma says.

"People aren't like that," Belle says, as if Emma doesn't know that already. "We live in a world that tries to make everything very black and white; and there's nothing wrong with that. It's very idealistic. This is right, that's wrong, but then people come in and mix it up and make it all very gray. Look at the legal system - the very one that helped put us into this mess. Precedents and this law hinging on one aspect but fails under another.

"Robert's very gray. Robert and I are very gray. I know the man I married - or I thought I did, anyway. And this proves that there's more to him than I knew when we got married. I love him, and I think a lot of me always will love him, but it doesn't mean I have to agree with or condone what he does. I know what I believe in, and apparently it doesn't all match up with what he believes in. Sometimes you have to do the hard thing, even or especially when it concerns someone you love, because it's the only way you can save what's left of them."

"If they want to be saved," Emma murmurs, looking down.

Belle hums in agreement, sitting back to admire her handiwork on King's leg. "And sometimes that's all you can do. It's up to them in the end."

Emma doesn't respond after that. She follows Belle around to the rest of their charges quietly, thinking. She's almost frighteningly reminded of how she felt about her relationship with Neal - maybe not so frighteningly; maybe the apple hadn't fallen very far from the tree. But Belle talking about what she believes in and how it doesn't match up reminds Emma of what it was like just before she left. All of Neal's talk about making his own way, building his own fortune in whatever way he could - Emma hadn't cared about any of that. She'd just wanted him, and he wasn't giving her the security of his affection as he had before.

Everything that came after only proved how little their beliefs matched.

And yet part of her still loved him - past tense, now. After their talk, she's sure she'll always care if he's doing well or not, but she doesn't _love _him. But she understands, a little, where he'd come from; that despite doing awful things there were still other things he cared about - good things. He became a less awful figure in her mind, less black and more - more gray.

Maybe she can understand the situation Belle's in a little better than she thought she could.

As they slip into another stall, another gelding enchanted by Belle's soothing hands and voice, Emma thinks about James. How she'd blamed herself for years for his death, going so far as to repress a lot of the memories she'd had surrounding that day or James himself or even things like how she'd disliked storms as a kid. How it had taken another accident for her to realize that it hadn't just been '_Emma freaking out equals James' death_', that it had been more complicated than that.

More gray.

And she thinks about Killian. How she'd initially been a little wary of him, only knowing what she did from barn gossip and magazines, how she'd kept him at arm's length because she'd been afraid despite how sincerely he seemed to care for her. How sincerely he _does_ care for her, even after she'd let her black and white judgement get the better of her time and time again and push him away so drastically that it's honestly a miracle that he still cares about her.

And maybe... she doesn't have so much of a black and white worldview anymore. Maybe she's growing, and maybe seeing things in more shades of gray will make things easier in the long run. Or maybe not, but if she can be less stubborn, more understanding… maybe she can let herself hope that things will always have a chance to be better.

"What happens now?" Emma asks after they've finished wrapping packs. She's got a classes starting soon, the last ones before Christmas break, and she and Belle walk towards Mary Margaret's indoor ring to set up a few riding games for the kids to play. Emma doesn't want to do anything too strenuous or start them on anything new when they'll have two weeks off, so a scavenger hunt or maybe walking the girls' class through the barrels later will be a fun way to send them to their vacation.

Belle's attention is on Dr. Lucas' truck coming up the long drive, but she says, "I have a feeling you're not talking about your classes."

Emma looks over to the truck as well, smiling when she sees Henry in the passenger seat. It seems like Regina had agreed to Dr. Lucas' idea after all. "No, I mean for you."

"I don't know," Belle says with a sigh. They wave as Henry and Dr. Lucas get out of the truck and start unloading things, then head towards the indoor ring again. "There's not much wiggle room for me right now. Robert's being held without bail. Regina has a few people from her office working on a way to protect me. Her friend Mal is drafting divorce papers, though I'm not sure he'll sign, not after all his assets were transferred to me upon arrest."

Emma blinks at that. She's probably one of the few people privy to just how much in assets Gold's got, especially after he acquired Neal's after _his _arrest. If all of that had transferred to Belle - who was not an unwealthy woman on her own from her trade - then she's now a very powerful woman indeed. "Whoa."

Belle smiles sadly. "Regina has been working with me to move some of that around in case he does retaliate in some way. The horses are mine now, technically, so I at least wanted to make sure they're protected - Killian too. I know he was concerned when Regina wanted to have Robert banned from the Horn, so I made sure they're covered financially and Killian won't have to fret about expenses or having to get rid of them with nowhere to go."

"That's - that's really nice of you," Emma says. She'd known about Regina wanting to have Gold evicted from the Horn, but she's never considered how it would have affected Killian.

Belle shrugs. "Keeping him in a paycheck the very least I can do. He's been very kind to me."

"He does that," Emma murmurs, rubbing her tattoo through her coat.

"Otherwise, I just sit tight and wait for someone to tell me what needs to happen next. Or keep myself busy," Belle says.

And Emma currently has plenty to keep Belle busy, so they get to work setting up little obstacles and scavenger items for the classes. Emma makes notes about what item is where, both so she can keep track for resetting and to make sure no one's lying about hiding or stealing anything. Her students are pretty good about that, but there's one or two she needs to keep an eye on sometimes.

They're just finishing up when someone clearing their throat echoes across the ring. Emma looks over her shoulder, surprised to see a police officer standing in the doorway. Her pulse quickens; she can't imagine why the police would be here, but it's probably not anything good. She sets her clipboard down on a post and crosses the ring, hearing Belle's footsteps not far behind. "Can I help you, officer?" she asks, trying to quell her racing heart.

He's fairly young, and he looks like he's trying to keep his expression neutral but failing; his eyes are too apologetic for that. "Sorry to bother you ladies, but Mr. Nolan told me I could find a Mrs. Belle Gold in here."

Belle steps forward, and Emma glances at her sharply; Belle's much better at hiding her emotions than the officer, her expression carefully smoothed into mild concern. "That would be me, officer. What can I do for you?"

"Mrs. Gold, is your husband Robert Gold?"

Belle doesn't bat an eye. "Yes, sir."

The officer makes a noise like a restrained sigh, then pulls out a pair of handcuffs. Emma's heart leaps into her throat. "Wait, what are you -"

He ignores her, taking Belle's arm and moving swiftly behind her to cuff her hands together. "Mrs. Gold, I have a warrant for your arrest under suspicion of withholding evidence and willful ignorance of a federal crime. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say -"

Blood pounds in Emma's ears as the Miranda rights are read off; she feels like she can't breathe. Belle still looks strangely calm, as if she's known this might happen and has already prepared for it - and maybe she did, Emma realizes suddenly. Hadn't they just talked about how Belle had moved her money around to protect the horses, protect Killian in case something happened.

"_In case he does retaliate in some way."_

_That son of a bitch_, Emma thinks desperately. _She knew he'd do this._

"I have a lawyer," Belle is saying calmly. "Several, actually."

"We can arrange for them to meet you at the station," the officer says.

"No need," Belle says, and it's astonishing how calm she sounds. "Emma, please let Regina know what's happened, she'll know what to do next."

Emma nods and follows them numbly outside. She can see a few of her students and their parents gawking as Belle is led to the police cruiser waiting in the drive. David's standing with Dr. Lucas and Henry; he's got Henry fast around the shoulders and Emma can't remember Henry ever looking so angry in his life. She knows how he feels - the shock of Belle being arrested is numbing most of her other emotions, but under the numbness is pure, unadulterated loathing for Robert Gold.

Belle smiles at Emma over the roof of the cruiser, mouthing something that looks like, _I'll be alright_ just before she's made to get in the backseat.

For everyone's sake, Emma hopes so.

As the cruiser drives away, Emma glances at the small crowd of people gathered in the driveway. "Class is cancelled," she tells the parents, and she turns on her heel back to the barns - the main stable, not Mary Margaret's.

David has Henry for now, and she knows she'll need to explain to them what happened, but she has a few phone calls to make first. Emma sits on an overturned bucket outside of Princess' stall and calls Regina's cell; she knows Regina's at work, but she's gone to voicemail too many times to trust the office phone. "This had better be good, Emma," Regina says and she sounds distracted.

"I hope Belle getting arrested qualifies," Emma says, her voice shaking a little.

Regina swears so colorfully that Emma might have blushed if she didn't agree with the sentiment. Her phone beeps to let her know that Regina's hung up on her and Emma can't even find it in her to be annoyed at the lack of manners. She'd probably do the same.

Emma hangs her head low, bracing her elbows on her knees as she takes a few breaths to try and calm down. Her arms feel like they're made of Jell-o - freezing cold Jell-o at that, if her numb fingers have anything to say about it - and her heart feels like it's about to pound right out of her chest. Her thoughts are swimming in circles, a swirl of color and nonsense that she can't make heads or tails of. What the fuck just happened? Withholding evidence and willful ignorance? _Belle_? What the actual fuck kind of charges are those? The more she tries to make sense of it all, the more confused she feels.

After a few minutes, she lets out another shaky breath and calls Killian. "Love, what's wrong?" he asks in lieu of greeting.

She loves him more than she can say that he immediately knows something is wrong without her needing to say it. "Belle was arrested," she says, and to her horror she feels tears prick her eyes. Good God, now she's getting weepy on top of it all, or maybe the adrenaline from the shock is wearing off. "I don't know - Gold did something, said something, they just took her away and I don't -"

Killian mutters something in Irish, and she'll bet none of it is a blessing. "Does Regina know?"

"Yeah."

"Are you alright?" he asks, and his tone is so concerned that she really is going to start to cry in a minute.

"No," she says honestly.

"Okay," he says, and he doesn't sound alright either.

She rests her forehead in her hand and takes a few breaths, trying to make the tears go away before they can fall. "God, can this year just be over?" she bursts out. She's had some shitty years in her life, but the last six months in particular have been a rollercoaster and all she wants is to get the fuck off.

He chuckles weakly. "I know the feeling, sweetheart." He's silent for a moment, and then he says, "Listen, do you want me to come over there? I can let Will know what's happening and if you wanted -"

She didn't realize it until he suggested it, but she wants to see him more than anything right now. "Please," Emma whispers.

"Alright, darling. I'll be over in a tick."

It's more like half an hour, but that's enough time for Emma to make the appropriate calls to cancel the rest of her classes for the afternoon. She's in no shape to be teaching; it's not as if she had anything huge planned anyway, so she might as well let the kids enjoy their holiday without her anxiety getting in the way.

He finds her in Princess' stall and she's eerily reminded of the day that Pride died; she's not crying this time, but she very nearly starts to when he wraps his arms around her from behind. He nestles his chin in the crook of her neck, his hair tickling her cheek and his breath warm on what little of her skin is exposed. This feels _right_. It's _safe_, and Emma has to take a breath to quell the sharp spike in her emotions. "How is she?" he murmurs.

Emma smiles weakly, taking one of his hands and running it down Princess' swollen flank. The foal's a little active today, nudging at their hands. She feels the breath of Killian's chuckle on her neck, and it soothes her just as much as it sends a shiver down her spine. "They're both doing better than me," Emma says softly.

"Belle's a tough lass, and Regina even tougher," Killian says, though he sounds just as concerned. "I'd hate to be the ones facing them down, or that Pendragon woman they were discussing."

"I know, I just… It's not fair," Emma says. "I don't know how Gold did it, but he can't get caught in his mistakes and then take everyone down with him."

Killian doesn't say anything to that, but Emma doesn't expect him to. He probably knows it's not fair either, but neither of them can do anything about it. Emma leans back against him, letting herself have this moment before she has to wait again. His hand starts to move on Princess' flank, Emma's still resting on top, stroking and soothing the fidgety foal and its patient mother. "How are you doing?" she asks softly. "With all of this?"

She feels him shrug. "It's still sinking in, to be honest."

"Nothing jumps out?"

His arm goes a little slack around her waist and Emma redoubles her grip on his hand, giving him a little squeeze of reassurance. "I'm worried about her," he says after a moment. "She's tough, but she's not a creature for prison. I'm worried how long this will drag out for her - if they'll call her citizenship into question or… I'm not sure, love. There's a lot that could go wrong."

Emma hadn't considered Belle's citizenship either. "Could they revoke it?"

Another shrug. "It hasn't come up, but we've discussed it, us expats. Who knows?"

That's a bit above her head. She'd have to research it, but Regina would know. Emma doesn't know how to reassure him that Belle would probably be fine in that respect, if she _could_ say anything that would help or not. Though, if Killian was worried about expenses before, she can at least soothe any worries he might have there. "Belle told me you're covered," she says quietly. He makes a questioning noise and a corner of her mouth lifts into a small smile. "She said she had Regina move some money around or something. All Gold's horses are hers now and she made sure everything's going to be paid for, so you won't have to worry."

"Oh." His voice is quiet, a bit awestruck.

Emma's tone grows bitter as her smile fades. "I didn't realize it until after, but she said it like she was expecting this to happen. She wanted to make sure you were protected from Gold retaliating."

"Maybe she did know."

Emma's kind of done with _maybes_ today. She wishes she knew for certain. She wishes she knew why this had happened, how this happened, what's going to happen next, if Belle's going to be okay or if Gold's somehow woven an airtight trap and drag her down with him.

And if wishes were dimes, Emma would be a much richer woman.

"I wish I knew," she whispers.

"Me too," Killian murmurs, and he drags their hands back to her middle, holding her fast.

All Emma knows right now is uncertainty - and that Killian holding her makes her feel like the world is a little less off-kilter than it was an hour ago. So she relaxes in his hold, letting her head fall back against his shoulder, absorbing as much of this moment as she can to brace against whatever uncertainty there is to come.

* * *

**Thank you as ever for reading, your patience, and all of the reviews/faves/follows/kudos/asks/etc! (And yay, next chapter came before the end of the semester, though I'm pulling some long nights to get everything done ._.;; ) Not too much longer, 2-3 more regular chapters and then the epilogue. :)**


	25. December 23-25

**We are introducing a new character this chapter. I had a poll on my blog awhile back, and OQ fandom was lovely enough to choose the new character's name. (I also see you, people who submitted punny names. I'm watching you! ;) )**

**Thank you as always to idoltina for beta'ing and telling me which parts are actually good. :)**

* * *

Emma's half-under Leo's bed when she hears him sigh for what has to be the hundredth time that afternoon. Every time she's asked what's wrong he just shrugs, so she ignores it now in favor of her task. She winces as her shoulder protests the odd angle she's at, but she manages to grab the stuffed monkey that had fallen and gotten stuck under the bed. She rights herself as she brushes all the dust bunnies off the monkey; maybe she'll get ambitious with all this free time on her hands and clean the whole house.

There's pang in her chest when she remembers Belle. It's been four days since the arrest and no one can tell Emma anything. Neither Killian nor Will know what's happened since, and Regina hasn't been the most forthright with answers - not that Emma's surprised. Still, they've only talked on the phone twice since the arrest - the first time Emma had tried to get answers and the second when Regina had invited Emma to Christmas Eve - so Emma plans on grilling her tomorrow night in person.

Regina wouldn't toss her out on Christmas Eve, right?

Leo sighs again and Emma fights back a sigh of her own. "Alright, kiddo, something's bugging you. You gotta tell me what it is, though, you can't just sit there and be dramatic and hope I guess what's wrong."

Leo shrugs. He stares at his hands and kicks his feet a little, his heels hitting the bed frame lightly. Emma's mouth twists in a resigned way and she sits next to him on the bed. She reaches over and rubs his back a little, trying to coax him into talking. "You know you can tell me anything, Leo," she says softly. "Whatever's bothering you."

She watches as the frown gets deeper on his face and bright red spots bloom on his cheeks, until finally he bursts out, "Why aren't you coming to Gramma's for Christmas?"

Emma blinks. Of all the things she thought he might be upset about, this wasn't even in her top ten. "Leo, Gramma Ava isn't my grandma. Or even my mom, she's your mom's mom."

"So? It's not fair!" Leo jumps off the bed, only to sit hard on the floor next to his toys. "You never got to be here for Christmas before," he mumbles, his voice sullen as he picks up one of his dinosaurs. "And now you're here and we're going away."

"Oh, Leo." Emma tries to think of a way to explain her complicated feelings about family and Christmas, let alone her limited patience with Ava. For one thing, he's only six, and he's known the love of his parents his whole life. She and David had decided a long time ago that it wasn't necessary to tell him - or any of David and Mary Margaret's future kids - about Emma's past. They were family and that's what really mattered.

And maybe that was a mistake, but she's not sure if Leo's old enough to really understand. Maybe in another year or two she can explain how she never knew her parents, how she'd never had a real family until David, how Christmas was at its heart about family and togetherness and for fourteen consecutive Christmases she'd never had that.

She doesn't know how to explain that sometimes she still has that creeping feeling that she doesn't fit in anywhere, that even after five years away and searching for _home_ she's still afraid of finding it and somehow screwing it all up.

_Go find Tallahassee._

She doesn't always understand it at 29, even though she's lived it her whole life. She wouldn't expect a six-year old to come close.

Instead, she moves to sit near him on the floor. "Someone's gotta make sure the farm is okay while your daddy's gone," she says softly. "And Phillip's really good at his job, but you know how your dad worries?" Leo nods, still pouting. Emma smiles a little. "Well, he put me in charge while he's gone. I have to make sure nothing bad happens while you guys have a nice Christmas."

"Like what happened to Uncle 'Ian and Henry."

There's a lump in her throat and her heart feels full to bursting. Neither Leo nor Roland have really talked about what happened, though in fairness Emma hasn't seen much of Roland since September. This is the first time that she really knows of that Leo's openly referring to the accident. Silently, Emma opens her arms and Leo scrambles over to sit in her lap. Emma wraps her arms around him and kisses the top of his head. "Yeah," she says, her voice cracking. "We don't want that to happen again."

"That was really scary."

"It really was, kiddo."

"And they're okay now?"

She rubs his arm, resting her cheek against the top of his head. 'Okay' is a relative term. Henry seems to be bouncing back much faster - helping Dr. Lucas on her rounds and in her clinic the last few days seems to have done a lot more to help than Regina's restrictions. And Killian… His bruises have faded and his jaw has healed, but for as touchy-feely as he's been lately she knows he's holding back. As easily as she knows her own name, Emma knows Killian isn't really okay yet; he's just pretending for everyone else's sake. "They're working on it," she says instead. "Some hurts take longer to heal than others."

She feels Leo nod. They stay like that for a long moment, Emma rocking slightly from side to side. When she feels Leo wiggle and free his arms enough to awkwardly hug her in return, she smiles. "How about this?" she asks. "I asked your mom and dad to bring my presents for you to your grandma's house. You can leave mine here, and we'll Facetime on Christmas morning and open them together that way."

"Are you even gonna be awake?" Leo asks skeptically.

Emma laughs just as Mary Margaret pokes her head in the door. "All packed up?" she asks. Leo scrambles to his feet, yelling something about toys he hasn't packed yet, and Emma gets to her feet with a grunt. Mary Margaret raises a curious eyebrow at her while Leo tries to fit three more things into his already-full duffel bag. "Everything okay?" she asks quietly.

Emma nods. "We had a little issue but I think we're good now," she explains. "There's probably something we need to talk about after you guys get back, but it's nothing that can't wait until after the holidays."

The other eyebrow goes up, but Mary Margaret doesn't ask. "Okay." She glances at Leo. "Come on, Leo, grab your monkey and leave the rest of that here - unless you don't want Santa to bring you new toys tomorrow?"

Emma smothers a laugh as Leo yelps. Figuring Mary Margaret can handle her own kid, she ducks out of the room and goes downstairs to help David finish packing up the car.

The ground's thankfully frozen over by now, which makes the prospect of hauling Mary Margaret's bags outside less daunting, and the sky's a steely gray color that hints at the prospect of snow to come. Emma's breath comes out in little huffs and clouds; it's going to be freezing in her room tonight. David's crawled in the back of the car through the hatch, no doubt trying to hide as many of Leo's presents - and probably Mary Margaret's - as he can before stacking the luggage in front of them. "Here's one," Emma says with a grunt. "Dunno if there's rocks in here or what, but good luck with that."

"Ah, the one with the blue luggage tag? That one's full of precious metals. We're smuggling them across the border," David deadpans, making Emma snort.

She glances up at the sky. "You guys think you'll beat the snow?"

"Hope so. I'm more worried about the storm that's supposed to blow through next week, but we'll take that as it comes." She's heard people grumbling about this supposed huge snowstorm, but she'll believe it when she sees it. This is coastal Maine, not Colorado. David backs out of the hatch with a grunt. "Alright, let's get the rest of the bags out here. Faster we get on the road, faster we get off it."

It takes them three trips to bring everything down, but the upside is by the time they're finished Leo is all bundled up and ready to go. He sprints down to the car while Mary Margaret fusses in the kitchen one last time. "There's enough food for you - oh and Regina will probably send you home with leftovers tomorrow - and don't forget to unplug the tree every night, at least you don't have to water it - oh and the outside lights too -"

"Mary Margaret." Emma and David share a smile when they realize they've spoken at the same time. David wraps one arm around his wife's shoulders and picks up the last box of cookies with his other. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get out of Emma's hair."

Mary Margaret gives her a watery smile, then opens her arms for a hug. "Oh, I wish you were coming, I hate the thought of you by yourself at Christmas."

Emma hugs her as tight as she can around the bulky coat and baby bump. She's _not_ going to let her sister-in-law get her all emotional; one of them needs to have their hormones under control. "Don't worry about me, I was just in Boston. Have a good time at your mom's." She hears Mary Margret take a breath to reply, but then the baby kicks Emma square in the stomach. Emma lets out a startled laugh. "I think someone's telling me to go away," she jokes, stepping back. "I wouldn't be allowed to come anyway."

Mary Margaret laughs, and swipes at her eyes briefly. Then she leans in to kiss Emma's cheek. "Merry Christmas, Emma."

"You too."

Mary Margaret thankfully slips out the door before she can make Emma any more emotional. David, in true brotherly fashion, wraps her in a loose headlock and kisses her forehead. "Try not to cause any mayhem," he says.

"I promised Leo we'd Facetime for presents on Christmas morning," Emma tells him.

"And you'll be awake for that?"

Emma rolls her eyes and shoves him towards the door. "You _and _your son. Yes, I'll be awake."

She stands on the porch and watches as they get into the car, lifting a hand and waving as they drive past and down the long driveway. She sighs as they turn onto the road and into the fading daylight, then plugs in the outside lights before heading inside.

At first, things are fine. She does run around the house a little with the Swiffer and the vacuum, if for no other reason than she knows Mary Margaret will appreciate coming home to a clean house. Emma tosses a sandwich together out of some leftovers for dinner, and then heads down to the barns to help out with evening chores. Phillip has everyone divided up between the main stables and Mary Margaret's, so Emma doesn't have to worry about handling that part of the farm all on her own.

She _could_ do it. She just appreciates that she doesn't _have_ to do it.

With so many hands on deck, she finds herself without anything else to do much too early in the evening. She putters - takes a long shower without worrying about using up all the hot water for anyone else, actually remembers to shave her legs, makes sure the space heaters in her room are on, dries her hair while blaring music on the radio - but the house that feels stuffed to the gills most days is too _quiet_. It feels enormous and empty, and Emma doesn't know how to deal with that.

Weird that a year ago she was living by herself on Long Island and found no problem with the quiet. Granted, her apartment wasn't as big as the Point, but it's still amazing to think how things change in a year.

A year ago she'd been sick to her stomach over Graham, over how he died and if she'd played any part in forcing Neal's hand. A year ago she'd been figuring out what she needed to do to help put his murderers to justice. A year ago she was just starting to pack up her life - again - and come back to the place she'd run away from so many years before, to so many people who were no more than ghosts in her memory. And now? Now she's forgiven herself for something she hadn't had a hand in at all. She's laid a lot of her old ghosts to rest, healed hurts she never realized were still hurting, reformed her family and found new people to love, too.

Emma's curled up on the couch, weighing her phone in her hand while something plays on the TV purely for background noise. She smiles wryly as she realizes that she's had home all along; it was just waiting for her to come back to it. And maybe home is something a little more, too. Maybe home isn't a place - it's people.

Thirty-six hours from Christmas, several hours after pushing her family out the door to celebrate without her, and only now does she realize that might have been a mistake. Emma almost chuckles to herself as she realizes she's living a freaking Hallmark movie.

And maybe it's the sappiness she feels at that thought that makes up her mind for her, unlocking her phone and tapping out a text. '_Hey, are you busy rn?_'

It takes a few minutes of watching TV - an earlier season of _Law &amp; Order: SVU_, it looks like, if Mariska Hargitay's short hair is to be believed - before her phone buzzes with a reply. '_Not as such, no_'

She smiles and asks '_Mind if I call?_'

Instead of a reply, Killian calls her first. Emma bites the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. "Hey," she answers.

"Hullo, Swan," he says and her smile fades when she hears how down he sounds.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

He exhales slowly and Emma sits up a little straighter. "'S nothing I can fix, _a mhuirnín._"

"Yeah, well, maybe talking about it will help."

Killian doesn't respond for a minute or so, then he chuckles. "You know, I don't have therapy this week, the holiday and all. I was thinking earlier how it would have been an assuagement to actually have a session and now you're all persistent to have me speak up."

One corner of Emma's mouth curls up. "Yeah well, whatever your regular sessions cost, I charge double."

He laughs a little more genuinely this time and it eases the slight hurt in her heart. "I'll bear that in mind, love." He falls silent again and she waits him out. "It's too bloody quiet," he says finally, his voice soft.

Emma blinks, thrown for a moment, then it hits her. "I can't imagine Belle being very noisy," she says.

He huffs a little. "No, not as such," Killian says. "But I grew used to having someone else in the house. It's a peculiar feeling, to go from being used to no one's company but your own, to suddenly having another constant presence, to then having it stripped from you once again. I'm not entirely sure how to feel."

She hugs her knees to her chest. "I was thinking the same thing a little bit ago. I can't move around here without tripping over someone, but suddenly this place could be a freaking castle for what it feels like without everyone around."

"Strange, how time can change a person."

Emma smiles as she rests her head against the back of the couch. It shouldn't at this point, but it never fails to surprise her how he always voices her thoughts. How in sync they are, even when it's sad.

She _misses_ him.

He's right here - almost, anyway - but she _misses _him. It's not even the sex she misses most; she just misses _him_. The quiet cadence of their talks in the evenings, making him laugh when she made fun of whatever they were watching on TV. Running down to the barns with him to help with feeding, both of them disheveled from an afternoon quickie and ignoring Will's smirk. The crows feet around his eyes when he smiles that gentle smile just for her, the pointy tips of his ears…

"Didn't hang up on me, did you, love?" Killian asks.

Emma blinks out of her reverie, wondering how long she was out of it. "No. Sorry, got - got caught up in a thought, I guess."

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Her stomach flutters with nerves, but he did ask. She hates how hard this is for her to admit out loud, wishes she was better at opening up, but it's Killian. "Just." She takes a deep breath. It's Killian. She can talk to him. "I'm just lonely, I guess."

"Emma…"

She bites back the rejection she feels at the regret in his voice. She keeps her grip tight on her phone so she doesn't give in to the urge to rub at the itch spreading across her skin. "No, I know. Not like - not like that. It's weird, after the last few years of being on my own and being okay with being on my own, now that I have that space again… It's weird. And I just really wish I wasn't alone right now."

He doesn't say anything but he doesn't have to. She suspects he'd probably like to come over, probably wants to fix the feeling of loneliness they share. But Emma knows just as well as he does what would happen if either of them went to the other's place. It might start off innocently enough, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions. This whole thing between them hadn't ever been wholly innocent, but in the end, neither of them had been particularly good at resisting this draw between them.

If he's being cautious about it, he's not ready. She can respect that boundary.

"Hey, so speaking of being all alone," she says, trying to put some pep into her voice.

Killian barks a laugh and the anxious knot in Emma's chest loosens. "Love, that's awful."

"Yeah, well," she says, shifting her weight in her seat. She's starting to feel tired. "Regina's having a Christmas Eve thing tomorrow. She usually makes enough food to feed an army, so I'm sure you turning up wouldn't be unwelcome. You know, if you wanted to."

She hears the smile in his voice and her fingers itch with the urge to trace it. "Emma Swan, are you attempting to ensure I'm not alone on Christmas?"

Heat flares in her cheeks, rushing down her neck and up to make her ears burn. "No," she protests. "It's Christmas Eve. Completely different day. With food, and no presents. Well, there might be a dog. Robin said they might have the dog by now -"

"Swan - _Emma_," Killian says over the rest of her rambling, making her fall silent. "Regina already invited me," he says in a quieter voice. "She took me in at Thanksgiving as well. Seems as if she's decided to adopt me."

Emma feels a quiet rush of affection towards Regina for that. She doesn't remember Regina ever extending this sort of invitation to Graham, but Emma was younger then, caught up in herself and her own problems. Emma's relationship with everyone had been on a less even field, even though her mentorship with Henry giving her a little more access to the Mills household. But even then she'd never had Christmas with them. No, there'd always been David and James and Ruth, then just David and Ruth, and then David and Ruth and Mary Margaret. Some years had involved Neal, but most of the time not.

And now, apparently, there would be Regina, Robin, Henry, Roland, maybe a dog, and Killian.

Not bad for someone who'd spent last Christmas alone.

"She probably knows the only way to keep you out of trouble is by keeping an eye on you," Emma says, shoving her sentimental self to the side.

There's a disbelieving snort on his end. "I'd think the same should be said of you," Killian retorts.

She smiles: he's not exactly wrong. "Maybe. So I guess I'll see you there, then."

"I guess you shall." Emma shifts again, moving to stretch out on the couch. She grunts when she hits her elbow on the arm of the couch, then tucks her feet under the blanket on the other end, rolling onto her side to face the TV with a sigh. "Swan, what the blazes are you doing?"

"Getting comfortable." He makes a strangled sort of noise, like he's trying to clear his throat and failing badly, and Emma realizes what she's said. "Crap, not like _that_. Mind out of the gutter, Jones."

"If you insist on leaving yourself wide open, I can't help but -"

"Oh, shut it," Emma grumbles, making him chuckle. "I was going to tell you to turn on whatever this channel is and watch TV with me, but if you're going to be a jackass about it…"

She hears him grunt under his breath and then the sound of the TV on his end. They figure out something to watch together - _Die Hard_, as it turns out, a perfectly acceptable seasonal movie even with the edits. "'Yippee-kie-yay, my friend' just doesn't have the same punch," Emma mumbles. It's hard to keep her eyes open, but she wants to at least make it to the PC bomb in the elevator shaft.

"American censorship is a strange business," Killian comments.

"Mm."

Emma, despite her best intentions, doesn't make it to the elevator shaft scene. She falls asleep to Killian's soft grumbling about whatever cheap product is being advertised during a commercial break, his voice in her ear and lulling her into a soft sense of safety, and she doesn't wake up until the infomercials are running. She sits up, groggy and achy from the old, worn down couch and fumbles for the remote. The silence is almost deafening, but Emma ignores it in favor of picking up her dropped phone. She wonders how long she'd been out before Killian hung up.

There's three texts waiting for her.

'_I can't believe you fell asleep during Die Hard. Who falls asleep during Die Hard?'_

'_You missed a brilliant explosion, love. Several, actually.'_

'_And no, you didn't snore. See you tomorrow. X'_

Emma blames her sleepiness and the lingering sentimentality for the way she traces that X with her thumb. He's getting there - slowly, but surely - but Killian's getting better all the same.

* * *

"Officially, Belle is an anonymous source," Regina says, shoving a casserole dish into Emma's hands. "He can't pin the charges against him on her completely, but he can claim that because the evidence was on paper only found within their house, she was knowledgeable about the events and didn't come forward with it. That would frame her as an accomplice. It's complicated, but we're working on it."

Regina blows a bit of hair away from her face before picking up the platter of turkey. It's the most information Emma's gotten out of her in a week - and likely the most she'll ever get Regina to say on the subject - but it's enough to satisfy her curiosity. "So the call came from inside the house?" she asks, following Regina into the dining room.

"Or throwing her under a bus. Take your pick."

It makes sense. He might be an asshole, but no one could say Gold was a stupid man. And judging by the way Belle had gone quietly with her head held high, Emma had probably been right to think that Belle had almost expected this to happen. She'd planned for it, made her peace with it.

Together, Emma and Regina finish putting the dinner table together; Henry had set the places earlier, so now all that was needed were bodies in seats. "Go tell everyone dinner's ready," Regina said, grabbing the lighter for the candles in the middle of the table. "And tell Roland the dog gets to come only if he doesn't feed her table scraps."

Truthfully, Roland's the least likely suspect. No, when Emma had arrived earlier that afternoon, the newest member of the Hood-Mills household seemed to be most enamored of Robin, shamelessly pawing at him to play fetch or tug at every turn. And, just as Emma had teased him a few weeks ago, Robin seems just as crazy about her in return. But when Emma goes into the living room, Sadie isn't with Roland over by the tree or playing with Robin on the floor, but sprawled out on her back and getting a good tummy rub from Killian. "Oh, I'm going to be in such trouble when I get home," he tells the dog, and Emma leans against the doorframe as his grin widens. "I've two lovely ladies waiting for me at home and they'll be mighty jealous when they get a whiff of you."

Sadie - a golden retriever/duck toller mix, according to Henry - is completely shameless, her tongue lolling out of her mouth as she wriggles on the carpet. Her tail alternates between thumping the floor and Killian's leg. Emma clears her throat, bringing everyone's attention to her. "Not to interrupt this shameless ploy for attention, but dinner's ready," she says. "Roland, your mom says no feeding Sadie table scraps. This warning also extends to everyone else present," Emma adds, meeting Henry, Robin, and Killian in the eye one by one. They at least have the grace to grin sheepishly.

Emma tries to flatten herself against the doorframe to let Henry and Roland pass, and then starts to follow. Warmth presses at the small of her back and she glances over her shoulder to see Killian; the warm feeling starts to tingle and spreads up her spine as his hand presses harder against her. "I still can't believe you fell asleep during _Die Hard_," he says, gently guiding her to the dining room.

"I can't believe it's been almost twenty-four hours and you're still making fun of me about that," she retorts. "I was tired."

"Aye, as was I, yet I stuck it through until _Herr_ Gruber's bitter end."

Emma makes a face at him even as he pulls out a chair for her; she doesn't instantly miss his hand on her back at all, nope. She almost makes fun of his German accent, even though it strangely makes her stomach flip over even more than his normal accent, but she catches Regina giving Henry a look instead. Emma glances between Henry and Regina as she sits; she can't see Henry's face while sitting next to him, but they're definitely having some sort of silent conversation. "Hey, wanna clue the rest of us in, or is this a private party?" she asks pointedly.

Regina glances at her, then smiles serenely. "It's nothing, Miss Swan. Roland, do you want sweet potatoes or regular?"

Emma side-eyes her but doesn't comment.

Dinner goes smoothly. Henry seems to be back to his usual self, talking across the table at Killian about his time with Dr. Lucas. Emma makes a mental note to talk about that with him later. She bounces between idle conversation with Robin about how his semester went and answering Regina's questions about Princess - Emma had forgotten Regina's plans to breed Heart come February. _First Princess, then Mary Margaret's baby's due in February, now Heart... _"It's the freaking circle of life around here," Emma says, taking a sip of wine.

"Why?" Roland asks.

Emma glances at Robin and Regina, slowly grinning at the mix of exasperated and resigned looks they're giving her. "Tag, you're it," she says cheerfully, standing and taking her plate and silverware to the kitchen.

She's rinsing everything off in the sink when she hears someone else enter in the kitchen. "That was cruel, love," Killian says, setting his used dishes on the counter next to her.

"They're not actually explaining where babies come from, are they?"

He takes the plate from her hand and loads it into the dishwasher. Emma glances at him askance, smiling a little as Henry and Robin come in with more dishes. They work in tandem for cleanup, Emma rinsing and Killian loading the dishwasher, while the kids disappear into the living room and Robin and Regina dole the leftovers out into containers. Sadie comes in and lays herself across Emma's feet, no doubt hoping for someone to drop something savory for her. "You act like I'm never going to feed you," Robin says, looking down at the dog, who just sighs forlornly. "You'll get your dinner in a moment, pup."

Regina points between Emma and Killian. "Neither of you are setting foot out of this house without an armful of food."

"Aye, you don't want to see hide nor feather of a turkey for weeks," Killian says, sounding like he's heard this speech before.

Regina smiles in a very self-satisfied way before making her way towards the living room. "Good, you're learning," she calls over her shoulder.

"Only from the best, Mrs. Hood."

Robin catches Emma's eye, rolling his in a very exaggerated way as he goes to get Sadie's food bowls. She smirks as she washes the grease from her hands, accepting the towel Killian hands her when she's done.

They're on their way back to the living room, Killian allowing Emma through the doorway first, when Roland screeches, "_Mistletoe!_"

Emma freezes, then glances up. Sure enough, there's a sprig of mistletoe dangling from the top - a sprig that definitely hadn't been there earlier. Her eyes narrow; she definitely smells a rat somewhere. "Son of a…"

Her gaze drops back to him when Roland giggles. "You gotta kiss, that's tradition!" he explains.

Right. Of course.

Carefully ignoring Killian's presence behind her - and definitely not thinking how he's reacting to this - she glances around the room, Emma spots Henry looking entirely too interested in whatever's on his phone; kid's got a terrible poker face. Her mouth twists as she swiftly puts the pieces together; she'll have a conversation with him later about this. Her gaze finds Regina, who has a careful mask of mild interest in place, but her eyes give her away. _Oh, we are going to _talk _about this..._ Holding back a sigh, Emma looks back at Roland, crouching down to his level. "You know what, kiddo, I'm pretty sure the rules mean that whoever _catches_ you under the mistletoe has to kiss you. And I think that's _you_."

She reaches forward and pokes him in the chest; Roland makes a face, but rushes forward to give her a very wet kiss on the cheek anyway. Emma turns slightly to kiss his cheek in return, then quickly blows a raspberry, making him giggle and squirm out of reach. "Okay, now Killian," he says, pointing over her shoulder. "He's stuck under the mistletoe too."

Emma closes her eyes in resignation, desperately hating the position this puts him in, but Killian reacts first. "Ah, lad, I believe the rules still apply in regards to who does the catching and the kissing."

Roland sighs heavily, his shoulders dropping dramatically, and he looks very much like Robin when he rolls his eyes. Emma stifles a laugh despite herself. But Roland goes to give Killian a kiss on the cheek anyway. Emma takes the momentary distraction to get up and go sit next to Henry. She glances down to see him furiously typing a text, studiously ignoring her. "Seriously?" she asks quietly, nudging him.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Henry replies, just as quiet.

Emma nods, humming in agreement. "Sure. And I don't know that you're texting Grace, even though she's at church right now."

Henry quickly turns off his phone display. "She's just bored," he says, shoving his phone under his leg, as if Emma's going to snatch it from him. She wouldn't - he's allowed to have privacy - but she's his Big Sister, she's allowed to tease him a little about a girl.

"Right, because Mass is boring when you're fifteen, and all girls definitely risk getting in trouble for texting a boy during Christmas Eve Mass," Emma says, recalling the futile struggles between her and Ruth during that first year or so with the Nolans. "So, Operation Mistletoe failed. Any other tricks you and your mom have up your sleeve for tonight? Of the terrible matchmaking kind?"

Henry snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. "It only failed because Roland's six and hasn't had time to learn all my tricks yet. Or subtlety."

"And don't forget who taught you those tricks, buster," Emma says, nudging him again. He begrudgingly smiles. "Look, it's not - it'll happen. Eventually. Some of us are just waiting for the other to catch up. So just… let it happen on it's own, okay?"

"We were just trying to help."

He says it so quietly, so sincerely that Emma's heart melts a little. She reaches over and wraps her arm around his shoulder, giving him a one-armed hug. "I know," she says. She feels eyes on them and looks; Regina's watching them over the rim of her coffee cup, a slight frown wrinkling her brow and worry in her eyes. Emma makes a face and Regina scoffs, rolling her eyes as she looks away. Emma smirks. "I appreciate it," she tells Henry. "But when it happens, maybe it's better if it's not in a room full of other people."

"Okay, _gross_," Henry says and Emma laughs, letting the subject drop for all of their sakes.

Sadie comes back in, flopping down with a sigh next to Roland on the floor. Her tail thumps on the floor when he starts to pet her, but she seems to be sated and sleepy from all the attention and dinner. Roland grins - Emma just notices that he's missing two more teeth - and lays against her, somewhat engrossed in some transforming toy and ignoring the grownups changing the subject.

Emma and Henry mostly listen as Killian and Robin start talking soccer - football, whatever - and Emma is surprised when Regina offers up a few opinions herself. She supposes being married to a fan of the sport means you pick up a thing or two. As the conversation turns to American football, Emma asks Henry, "So, how do you like working with Dr. Lucas?"

The genuine smile on his face alone is enough to tell Emma how it's going, but she's more than happy to listen as he launches into all the nitty gritty details of what the vet's allowing him to do. It seems like Dr. Lucas had been right: Henry wants to learn. He's happy and eager, and not even the prospect of doing a botfly flush seemed to gross him out. Emma's stomach rolls a little, remembering _that_ fun experience, but if there's one more person in the world who doesn't mind it the better her chances of never having to treat bots again. "Sounds like you're having fun," she says during a pause.

"Yeah," Henry says. "Honestly, more than I thought I would. Not that I thought it wouldn't be interesting, but Dr. Lucas tries to make it fun for me. Even the not so good stuff."

Emma hopes he feels the same way when racing season picks back up, when worse injuries become more common and most owners don't have the money for a costly rehab, when there will be more Prides and less rescues in Mary Margaret's stables, but time will tell there. "Well, good."

"I even talked to Mom about Cornell."

He says it quietly, like he doesn't want Regina or Robin to hear. Emma turns to face him a little better. She knows they've fought about Henry continuing school - both high school _and_ college - but if he'd been the one to bring it up, maybe this was a good thing. Maybe he was starting to take the blinders off about this jockey thing, look around at his options. It's not as if there aren't a ton of other things he could do and still work with horses. "What's at Cornell?" she asks, keeping her voice just as soft.

"It's got one of the best veterinary programs in the country."

Emma's eyebrows go up. She knows Henry and how he tends to throw himself into something one hundred percent, but at the same time she can see where Regina might have questioned it a bit, why Henry might not want her to hear him talking about it. She's glad Henry's reconsidering his career options, but two weeks of helping the local vet _does_ seem like it's jumping the gun in completely revamping his future. Still, she doesn't want to discourage him. "Okay. So you've started looking at that?"

He shrugs. "A few. I mean, I know it's new and all and I don't want to give up riding but… I think I should look at it? If I like it, right? I dunno. Mom's - I think she's okay with it, more than the jockey thing anyway, but I think she's worried because the ones close by are private schools and the public schools are really far away."

"Like how far?"

"Like California far. Or Texas far. Or Ohio far."

Emma raises an eyebrow. "Okay, well Ohio isn't as far as Texas or California, but I see your point. Maybe stick to this side of the Mississippi if you want to go out of state."

"Well, that's the thing," Henry says and Emma can tell it's a struggle to keep his voice down. "She thinks I should do a year or two at Bowdoin and then transfer."

"Kid, free tuition at a private college?"

"Going to school with my step-dad?" When Emma looks at him expectantly, Henry rolls his eyes. "Okay, well, it just feels weird. Like, would I bother to make friends if I commuted? Or if I knew I would only be there for two or three semesters? Or what about when I transferred, what if everyone in the program already made their friends and I don't know anyone?"

He starts to go on, but he's forgetting to keep his voice down and Emma knows he'd rather not bring his parents' attention to this right now. She reaches over and puts her hand on his. "Hey. Okay, take a breath." He does. "First, you're a sophomore. I know they're after you about college apps, but you literally don't have to make a decision for another year or so. Second, I am the shittiest person you can talk to about college."

Henry pretends to look offended. "I can't believe you swore on Christmas Eve."

"I can't believe your girlfriend texted you during church."

"She's not -"

"Yeah, yeah, not your girlfriend," Emma says as Henry rolls his eyes again. "Third. Your mom's pretty smart. And I have no idea how long veterinary school takes, but if it's anything like being a human doctor then you're going to be in college until you're my age. So it's a thought to hang on to, saving money where you can. And fourth, you're a sophomore. Let's wait to have a meltdown about choosing schools until you go on visits next year."

He sighs, sinking back against the couch and crossing his arms. She expects some sort of retort, but he only says, "I'm telling Mom you said she was smart."

"She'll never believe you," Emma says.

-/-

Killian glances away from Emma and Henry, failing to hide the smirk on his lips. Perhaps they'd meant to be more discrete, but he'd been well within earshot for most of their conversation. He's glad to hear that Henry's rethinking his future; Killian's had a few worried thoughts that even after everything the lad might still be considering a jockey career. Though, it does seem Henry's over-thinking quite a bit of it at this stage in the game.

Then again, Killian's quite in the same boat as Emma - complete shite when it comes to discussing uni - so what does he know?

"Will Scarlet's the man to ask about that, mate," Killian tells Robin, mostly out of truth but also due to him not quite hearing the question. "Man's bloody mad for the aul' footy, blathers me ears off every time he's not goin' on about the horses. Gets cheeky when I tell him I don't have a bloody clue what he's saying."

Robin grins. "We've had a chat now and again," he says, then glances up as Regina gets to her feet. "Need a refill, love?"

Killian twists, looking over his shoulder as Regina smiles. "I was going to grab a game, but sure," she says.

"Your accents get thicker the more you talk to each other," Emma remarks.

Robin laughs, getting to his feet. "It's a Christmas miracle, the English and the Irish have managed to set aside their differences."

Killian catches Emma's raised eyebrow, the bemused look on her face. "Bit of bad blood, love," he explains, remembering her terrible memory for geography. "Much like you Yanks, we had a bit of a scrap for our freedom, too. You want something to drink?"

"Hot cocoa?"

"With cinnamon," Henry adds.

Killian gets up with a grunt. "Anything else for you, sir?" he asks, layering on the accent as he bows slightly. "A saucer upon which to rest your cuppa?"

Emma's biting her lip in the most delicious way, holding in a laugh that makes her eyes sparkle, but Henry's rolling his eyes in his most dramatic teenage fashion. "You asked and didn't specify. _Please_."

Killian glances at Emma and winks, then follows Robin and Regina into the kitchen. He slips behind Robin through the gap between him and the wall, trying not to notice as the pair exchange a brief kiss. He's familiar enough with the general layout of the kitchen to find the right ingredients to whip up two mugs of cocoa while Robin refills Regina's coffee mug. "Hands will be a bit full, mate," Robin observes as Killian sticks the two mugs into the microwave. "What'll you have?"

Killian shrugs him off. "I'm fine, just needed to stretch me legs a bit. Getting sleepy, your wife makes a fantastic meal."

Robin chuckles. "That she does." He seems content to wait for Killian, though he stares at the coffee maker in contemplation. "Sorry, by the way, about the mistletoe. I think Emma caught on to Regina and Henry trying to matchmake a bit."

Killian smiles ruefully. "Aye."

There's a moment of silence, and then Robin exhales heavily. "Tell me to piss off if it's none of my business, but I thought the two of you were…" He gestures, as if trying to make the words come out on their own. "I suppose the best way to put it is _on the mend_?"

The microwave beeps, allowing him to think over how to answer Robin's question. Killian putters with the whipped cream and the cinnamon, hoping he's done it right, then braces himself against the counter. "In a way," he admits. "But I - I don't want to hurt her. I don't want to realize down the line that I wasn't ready, that I've messed her around and brought her nothing but grief. I'm - I'm not ready."

He glances at Robin out of the corner of his eye, and the other man is nodding solemnly, his posture much the same as Killian's. "Understandable, of course," Robin says. "But, ah, if I might offer a bit of advice? Again, tell me to bugger off if I'm out of line, but... Take her into consideration."

Killian raises an eyebrow, looking at him full-on. "Pardon?"

The insinuation that he's done anything _but _take Emma's feelings into consideration over the last several weeks is absurd. Robin folds his arms across his chest, planting himself firmly on the other side of the counter. "You're saying you don't want to hurt her, or mess her around or upset her, which is all well and good. But if she's willing to jump in, doesn't that say more about her acceptance of the possibility of these things?

"I'm not saying go and muck it all up now if you're truly not ready for a relationship. But the way you say it means you think things will be all peachy keen once you're there. I'm on my second marriage, mate. I can tell you that things are not peachy keen twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You'll hurt her without even thinking. One day the peanut butter jar will be in the cupboard and there will hardly be enough left for one spoonful and you'll just have a go at each other. One of you will work too much, one of you will feel like you carry too much of the burden of the home or the relationship." Robin's smile is a bit wistful. "You might try to have a child to save your marriage and fail spectacularly at it."

Killian thinks of Roland in the other room, so in love with the dog he's using as a pillow, a mischievous little lad who would be too young to understand such a confession from his father. Killian looks down, feeling a pull of empathy towards the lad. "Aye, I might - I might know a thing or two about that," he admits quietly. "My parents died hating one another, it's all I knew. I wondered… later, of course…"

Robin comes around the counter, clapping his hand on Killian's shoulder. "If you've seen the bad, then you know how to be better. In theory, at least" he amends. "But if you're willing to try, if you're willing to suffer the hurt for all the good that comes of loving someone, then you'll do alright. Only if you're ready."

Killian nods, smiling his thanks briefly, and Robin steps away. They carry their beverages back into the living room, where Regina has set up a game of Cluedo - pardon, _Clue _\- on the floor. Killian hands off the cocoa to Emma and Henry, then settles on the floor next to Roland.

It turns out the masterminds of this game are Emma and Henry; Regina is abysmal at it, something Killian takes enormous delight in teasing her about. Henry has a penchant for adding dramatic - and often gruesome - twists on the hows and whys of the tragic demise of Mr. Boddy. Robin's tactic seems to be naming himself as the killer (even with bulletproof evidence that his character is completely innocent, which almost came to a shouting match between him and Henry) and the most ridiculous methods of murder possible - which almost works out for him once, but Emma snipes the win out from under his nose.

They make it through three games, with Christmas cartoons playing on the TV behind them, before Henry notices that Roland has fallen asleep on top of Sadie. Regina glances up at the clock. "That might be our cue to turn in for the night," she says softly. Emma and Henry pack up the game while Robin carefully hefts Roland up to carry him up to bed. "Come on, Sadie," Regina says, snapping her fingers gently.

"She sleeps with Roland," Henry explains as the dog follows Regina out. "Though last night she tried to sleep with Mom and Robin, and took over Robin's whole side of the bed. He wasn't too happy about that."

"I bet she doesn't snore, though," Emma says, setting the game on the table.

"You would lose that bet."

Killian gathers up all of the mugs and takes them to the kitchen, letting them soak in the sink. It is getting rather late, he notes, thinking of the check-in he'll have to do with those who drew the short straws overnight. Will and one of the younger lads will be popping by tomorrow, but for the most part it's just going to be Killian and the horses for a quiet Christmas at the Horn.

Yesterday, he'd been alright with that prospect. Today…

When he leaves the kitchen, he pauses when he sees Emma with Henry in a headlock under the mistletoe. She laughs as he tries to wriggle away, settling for kissing the top of his head. "Merry Christmas, kid," she tells him, shoving him towards the stairs.

"Yeah, yeah," Henry grumbles, but on the fourth or fifth stair he pauses. Then he turns and jogs back down the stairs and practically throws himself at Emma, hugging her tight. "I'm glad you're here," he mumbles, just loud enough for Killian to hear from his place in the shadows. "Merry Christmas."

Emma swipes at her eyes when Henry goes upstairs, starting when Killian draws up next to her. "Sorry, just," she says, sniffling a little, "must be allergies or something."

"In December, aye," Killian says amicably.

She laughs, dabbing at her eyes with the hem of her sleeve. "He's a good kid," she says softly.

"Aye."

It doesn't escape him that she's standing under the mistletoe still, and he has a good feeling that she knows it too. Robin's advice is still fresh in his mind, but even so. Part of him wants to back her up against the door frame and kiss her until she can't stand on her own, hefting her up into his arms and whisking her away with him without so much as a goodbye to their hosts. And part of him knows how they fell into things before, how rushed and sloppy it was, how quickly things shattered when put under pressure.

He loves her. He wants to build something with her that will last.

He grips her hand in his, taking in the feel of her smooth skin against the roughness of his fingers. He slides his thumb down her fingers as he brings her hand up, meeting her eyes. There's caution there, and if he's not mistaken, hope. She gives him a tentative smile. "Mistletoe," he says quietly, before pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

Her eyes search his, a hundred emotions flickering through her face. His heart sinks as the hopeful look in her eye dies, the smile fades. Instead, confusion reigns supreme, with a side of hurt as he releases her and steps back.

_You'll hurt her without even thinking._

"Happy Christmas, Emma," Killian says softly, dropping his gaze and backing away from her towards the door.

Robin was right.

Killian shoves his feet into his boots, slinging his coat over his shoulder as he opens the door and steps out. It's started to snow, just a bit, and the wind is brisk on his cheeks as he closes the door behind him, feeling Emma's eyes on him the whole time.

-/-

Emma is up in time to open presents with Leo over the phone. She sets aside her hurt and her confusion over Killian's behavior the night before in favor of making her nephew happy. She accepts her presents with thanks, she gives the appropriate amount of admiration to Leo's new toys, and after she wishes her family a merry Christmas, she leaves them to their day.

And then she lets the hurt and confusion flow.

She tries not to mope, tries to put this energy to good use. She throws away wrapping paper and sweeps up fake pine needles that have given up staying on the tree. She puts her new things away and makes herself a good breakfast.

She ignores the bag of leftovers in the fridge meant for Killian.

Regina had been pretty pissed to find that Killian had left both without saying anything and empty-handed. Now it's Emma's job to deliver them to him at some point before they go bad. Part of her is seriously contemplating just leaving them on his porch - it's cold enough, and they're only calling for it to get colder. Let him stew in confusion over why there's just a bag of food on his porch, let him wonder what the hell is going on -

Emma throws her used dishes and silverware into the sink and storms into the mud room, shoving her feet into her boots and bundling up. Barn chores. She needs to work to get rid of some of these feelings.

She stops to check on Princess before talking to Phillip; Dr. Lucas still thinks it will be another week or two before the foal is born, but Emma doesn't want to take any chances. It's anything-could-happen time. She gives Princess a careful once-over, crooning softly and stroking her side the whole time, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. The foal is a bit active, which makes Emma smile. "Stay in there a little longer, okay?" she tells it quietly, patting Princess' belly once more before heading down to the office.

Barn chores turn out to be mostly taken care of between those who drew the short straws, so Emma's regulated to long lining in Mary Margaret's barn. There's a bitter taste in her mouth as she leads one of the newer horses out to the arena: Belle had been the one doing long line rehab lately. She'd been reteaching Emma - five years turns out to be just long enough to forget the finer points of the exercise - but Belle was always better. "Be patient with me, alright?" Emma asks softly, rubbing the horse's nose before tapping the arm extender on the sandy floor.

It takes most of her focus, lengthening and shortening the lead, keeping her eyes moving to watch for favored legs or missed steps. She doesn't have to think about Killian or the way she thought he might have actually kissed her last night. She doesn't have to think about the overwhelming disappointment when he didn't, the confusion about why he'd even bothered to kiss her hand at all, the stupid rejection she'd felt when he'd just walked away.

She doesn't have to think about any of that at all.

By the time she gets to the third horse, though, she's got the hang of things. She has a feel for it again, can go through the motions a little more, even as she watches for signs of injury. And those little creeping doubts come back.

She'd deflected everything the first time. She'd given him an out. So why look at her like that? Why make her think he's getting better and then take seven steps backwards? Why get all handsy while teasing her before dinner? Why take her hand so gently, keeping one hundred percent of her attention on him with featherlight touches and intense eyes? Why make her think he just didn't want everyone watching? Why just up and leave?

Why the hell is she so bent out of shape over a goddamn kiss on the hand?

Emma's moody again by the time she gives in to the hunger pangs and goes back up to the house. Nothing in the fridge looks the least bit appetizing, but that bag of food for Killian feels like it's glaring at her to get rid of it. She stares at it for a long time, not really caring that the fridge keeps beeping at her about the door being open, debating with herself about whether or not to just dump it all on his porch and leave him to clean it up. _Or, you take it to him, leave _him _standing there like an idiot this time, and go get Chinese takeout_, part of her says.

That part makes a really good argument.

She takes the bag out to her car, grouchy and daydreaming about dumplings the entire drive to the Horn. She's going to drizzle them in soy sauce and duck sauce and definitely _not _eat them while sulking on the couch and watching a movie where more things explode. To think that two days ago she was feeling wistful and sappy about Christmas.

Emma's slightly surprised when she pulls up to the house: there's a small tree in the window. If she's honest with herself, she hadn't thought much about how Killian might feel about Christmas. She normally assumes people are fine and dandy with it, while she usually made the effort to downplay the holiday as much as possible. But there's a small part of her that thought he might be like her, another lost kid who might avoid it as much as possible.

Despite herself, she smiles slightly. As usual, Killian Jones defies expectations.

The smile fades as she bangs her fist on the door twice. She hears his muffled voice - is he talking to himself? To the cats? - through the door, and then it opens rather abruptly as he says, "Will, I thought I - oh."

Killian stares at her like he's never seen her before. Emma tries to look annoyed, rather than bewildered, but feels like she's failing. She thrusts the bag at him. "You left," she says shortly. "Regina got pissed and made me bring this for you."

He accepts the bag slowly, still staring at her. "Aye," he says slowly. "Apologies for the inconvenience, love. Thank you."

She nods, then turns to go. She doesn't hear the door close and the vindictive part of her is quite thrilled that she will, in fact, be leaving him standing there like an idiot. But once her feet hit the path to the driveway, she stops.

She's still _angry_ about this.

"You left," she says, whirling on her heel and storming up the porch steps. "You _left_."

"I did," Killian says quietly.

"You - you did that - that _thing _with my hand, and you made me think - and then you _left!_"

"I'm sorry, Emma."

Emma huffs out a breath, the anger melting away and just leaving hurt in its place. Killian doesn't look away, looking every bit as sorry as his voice implies. "Why?" she asks, hating the way her voice cracks and how her eyes sting, how she cares so much about a stupid nonevent to begin with.

He reaches up and scratches under his ear, and some of her hurt fades at that familiar sign of his discomfort. "I - I don't have a good reason," he says. "I've been trying to think - Tink once told me I was terrible at communication. I believe this is the sort of thing she was referring to, sending mixed signals when truly I shouldn't be equipped to send any sort of signals at all." Emma frowns, but waits for him to get his words out. Killian sighs. "I didn't want… to hurt you. I didn't feel it right to raise your hopes as such, and I know I hurt you regardless, and for that I am sorry, Emma. I'm not - I just don't want to realize later that what we've built together isn't strong enough to last."

Her heart skips a beat, or possibly three, over his words. Her mouth feels dry as she tries to take that in, and it is a _lot_ to take in - _strong enough to last_, he's not just trying to make himself a better boyfriend, he's thinking _long-term_, like - like white picket fences and two-point-five kids kind of long-term. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth when she tries to open her mouth, but whatever words she was going to say (meaningful ones, important ones) don't come out. She swallows, then manages, "You signed your text with an X."

"Perhaps that was too forward."

That coupled with the wince on his face, makes Emma laugh faintly, because that's the most absurd thing she's ever heard. "It's a single letter, Romeo, not Sonnet 55." At his inquiring eyebrow, Emma waves him off. "Henry wanted my help with English, they're doing a section on Shakespeare, I was flipping through his notes."

As he nods his understanding, Emma tries again. Words are his thing, but it's not fair that he has to try and read her all the time. She wants to give him this. "Here's the thing. It's not - I like that you don't want to screw me over. In fact, I really like it, it's one of your best qualities. But I - I think I get a say in that. If you want - If _we_ want this to work again, then we both need to share that. I _know_ I'm going to upset you," she says, and he chuckles, looking down. "But I think that's just part of the deal. And not even giving me the chance to decide if I want you to kiss me and then walk away from me isn't giving me my share of this - this partnership."

God, she's got a long enough string of bad relationships that she shouldn't be trying to spout off advice, particularly to someone she wants another chance with, but Killian's nodding like whatever she just said makes sense. "I know, Emma, and I truly am sorry." His mouth twists, and then to her immense surprise the tips of his ears turn bright red; she's fairly certain it's not from the cold. "But, in the spirit of honesty, you should probably know that if I had kissed you last night, there wouldn't have been any walking away."

After everything they've done - all the things that she's let him do to her and vice versa - she shouldn't be blushing at that insinuation, but she is. "Oh."

"Indeed." The blush has spread from his ears and down to his cheeks, and he scratches under his ear again. "And it's not as if I don't - _believe_ me, I do - but I want us to have a solid foundation upon which to build this - us. We already know how tumbling into bed together worked out."

"You're really into this construction metaphor," Emma says, trying to deflect a little with humor. She's hungry and her wrists itch and she's definitely reaching a limit on feelings talk for the day.

Killian smiles, that lopsided one she likes so much. "I find it works for me."

Emma glances down to hide her own smile. "I'm really glad you didn't use a construction pun there."

He chuckles. "I tried to think of one, truly."

She looks up, then closes the gap between them, her arms going around his middle as his free arm closes around her back. "Apology accepted," she mumbles.

She hears him start to reply, but her stomach decides this is the time to remind her - loudly - that she hasn't eaten in hours. "Sorry," she says, stepping back. "I should go -"

"Swan, let me make you something," Killian says, stepping back, probably to let her come in.

"Oh, no, it's -"

"It's Christmas. What sort of Scrooge would I be to turn away a lady in need?"

Her shoulders drop as she glares at him. "Oh, I'll show you lady in need," she grumbles, striding into the house past him and jabbing him in the shoulder as she does so.

One of the cats - Am, probably - twines around her legs, yowling the whole time as Emma takes off her coat. Her heart feels full, if a little sad, glancing around the living room - from the little tree on the end table under the window to the familiar mess on the coffee table and his comically old furniture. She follows Killian into the kitchen, half-listening as he wonders aloud what he's going to make; mostly, she's remembering her thought from the other day.

_Maybe home isn't a place, it's people._

And maybe it's a little early to say, but being here like this makes her feel more at ease than she'd been at the Point. Sitting at his kitchen table feels comfortable, like it hasn't been months since the last time she sat in this chair. Emma smiles at Killian when he glances over his shoulder.

Slowly but surely, they're getting better.

* * *

**Two more proper chapters, then the epilogue! With a lighter summer class load, (I got out of spring semester with a 4.0!), I'm really hoping to finish this up quickly. (she says innocently, naively, and 16 months into writing this story, _still having not learned her lesson_) Thank you as ever for reading and favoriting and commenting and kudosing and reblogging and all the other feedback, I appreciate it so much and it keeps me powering through until the end!**


	26. December 29, 2014 - January 2, 2015

**The 8tracks playlist for this fic, _Songs from the Shedrow_, has been updated. Thank you to idoltina for beta'ing. Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

The next few days pass more quickly than Emma would expect. She spends a lot of time in the stables, trying not to hover around Princess and arguing with Phillip about whether or not she should set up a cot in the next stall over. "Emma, I know you're freaking out because of the last one, but I promise that you don't need to set up camp down here," Phillip tells her on Monday. "I swear when I let her out to pasture this morning, she sighed with relief, like 'thank God one of you has sense to leave me alone.'"

"Okay but did you -"

"I put her fleece blanket on her, yes. I know how to do my damn job, Emma. Let me do it."

She feels a little like a kid being sent to her room, but she sighs and stalks out of the office. Her phone buzzes in her pocket as she makes her way to the tack room, intent on polishing irons until they gleam.

To Emma's surprise, it's Ruby texting her. It's not unwelcome - they've spoken a few times since the season ended, but their schedules haven't clicked - just unexpected. '_Hey! NYE, u, me, Vic, TOSS THIS YEAR OUT IN STYLE!_'

Emma smiles, leaning against a post as she taps out a response. '_Sounds fun. Anywhere in particular?'_

Ruby replies almost immediately. '_Yes! Same bar we always hit up. Elsa n Anna r in Boston like lame-os. We'll get u a NYE smooch 4 SURE!'_

Emma almost rolls her eyes as a string emoji of lips and sparkles and what's probably supposed to be the ball dropping pops up, but she just replies with, '_Text me a time, I'll be there'._

Another text comes in just then, and this one Emma expects. She smiles as she reads Killian's message - nothing important, but that's what makes her smile. Something had changed between them since Christmas, something good this time. They talk more, either texting or calling each other up at night. It feels easier to just _talk_; not about anything in particular but just about their day, a funny thought they'd had, her upcoming trip to New York, his planned races down at Charles Town.

It feels as if nothing had ever changed. Yet at the same time, she can't help but remember his words - the weight of what he'd said on Christmas.

_Strong enough to last_. A future_. Their_ future.

It's a lot to think about, but the weirdest part is imagining herself living at the Horn someday. She's spent enough time there over the years that it's comfortable, but five years ago she would never have thought she'd be living there. She's caught herself thinking about throwing out Killian's old furniture and them buying a new living room set together. She's wondered what it would be like to argue about what color to paint the bedroom. She's even imagined the different uses for the two unused rooms upstairs. No, the weirdest thing is _not _imagining herself living at the Horn. The weirdest thing is realizing that she's not _entirely_ opposed to using them as bedrooms - and not of the guest bedroom variety.

It's usually around that point that Emma snaps herself out of it and goes to find something to do with her hands.

It's a lot to think about, but she's noticed that the more she thinks about it - daydreams about it, even - the less scary it becomes. Planning a future, putting down actual roots, finding _home_, it feels - it feels right.

There's a radio on one of the shelves in the tack room, covered in straw-dust but still perfectly serviceable (even if it is older than she is). She flicks it on, twisting the dial through the static until she finds something acceptable. There's the tail end of another warning about this supposed snowstorm headed their way, then some mindless preteen music starts up. '_I'm listening to pop music, don't make fun of me. :P_', she taps out on her phone.

Emma tucks her phone into her coat pocket as she straddles the bench, not giving Killian the satisfaction of reading and replying right away. She pulls a box of irons towards her with a smile and picks up her cleaning rag and polish. No, she won't be looking for someone to kiss at midnight, not this year. Ruby's just going to have to live with the disappointment.

* * *

New Year's Eve is a cold, windy day, with steely-gray clouds and the occasional light dusting of snow. The wind had started up the night before, making the house creak and any kind of sleeping difficult. Emma spends the morning down in the stables, tiredly mucking stalls and wondering if she'll even be able to make it to midnight, let alone drink until then. She's definitely in need of a caffeine boost around two. She helps Phillip finalize the emergency plans in case they get buried tomorrow; she still isn't sure if this storm is happening, but the radio keeps calling it a 'snowmageddon' or 'snowpocalypse' or whatever the buzzword of the day is, so Phillip wants to be prepared. "I can manage most of it if we get snowed in," Emma argues after they've conscripted two of the guys who have tire chains into coming in tomorrow, come hell or high water - or snow, as it were.

"Keyword there is 'most'," Phillip says. "David will kill me if something happens to you because we weren't diligent."

Emma meets his gaze, ready to argue, but she recognizes the stubborn set in his jaw. He's pretty easygoing, but she's known him for almost half her life. And maybe if it was anyone else but Phillip, she'd argue. If it was anyone who hadn't been here when James had died, she would have fought it, but Phillip's worked here for longer than Emma's lived at the Point.

She relents.

She stops in to check on Princess before going back up to the house to get ready for her night out. Emma knows what Dr. Lucas said and that hovering is probably the worst thing she could do, but the due date could be any day now. Princess whickers as Emma lets herself into the stall. "Hey, pretty girl," Emma says softly.

Princess nudges Emma's chest, blowing out her nose. Emma smiles, patting her neck. "I know, I'm disappointing without any carrots." She runs her hands over Princess's flank. "You're gonna be good for the boys tonight, right?" she asks softly, mostly just talking to keep Princess calm. She doesn't feel anything unusually warm, just Princess' heavy winter fur. "We don't want to make anyone freak out, there's enough to worry about. I don't know, though, I'll believe this storm when I see it. But _you_," Emma says, patting the bump where the foal is moving, "you just need to stay in there for another thirty-six hours at least."

Princess bumps her head against Emma's arm, whickering again. Emma gently strokes the thin stripe running down Princess' nose, then leans against her neck. Emma's tired and looking less and less forward to going out for the night, but she'd promised Ruby. And ringing in the New Year with friends sounds a little bit better than dozing off in the barn office while waiting for this foal to make up its mind on when it wanted to be born.

Only a little bit.

Emma straightens with a sigh, giving her horse one last pat before heading back up to the house. She's gotten a little more used to the house being so empty, but it's still unsettling to walk in the back door and be greeted by silence. She's considered leaving the radio on, just for noise, but she's heard that's what people who leave their dogs home alone all day do. And she's not a dog, dammit.

Showering helps wake her up a bit and eases the weariness in her muscles. She curls her hair and goes easy on the makeup, not really looking to spend an hour later scrubbing her face clean. It's probably too chilly for her sleeveless red dress, but Emma expects the bar to be kind of crowded. Hopefully she'll be buzzing enough later that she won't notice the chill. Ruby says it's her turn to play DD and Emma's not going to pass up a free ride - particularly remembering the last time they'd all gone out without a plan in place.

She gets downstairs with her clutch and her shoes just as Ruby pulls up the drive. Emma smiles as she unplugs the tree and locks the door behind her.

-/-

Killian's dozing on the couch when the front door bangs open. He shoots up, sending Si spilling onto the floor and causing Am to dig her claws into his thighs. "Bloody fuck - Scarlet, what in the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!" Killian exclaims, his heart ready to bust out of his chest from sheer terror.

Am's quietly growling in his lap, her fur all fluffed out and her tail twitching in agitation. He's got no idea where Si vanished to, though if she's got any sense then she's hidden herself away from any more mad British invasions. Killian tries to ease Am's claws out of his leg but only receives a few well-placed bites in return. Will, however, doesn't bother to answer the initial question. "Not knowing who Zinedine Zidane is, I can grant you that 'cos he's French and fuck the French," he says, his accent thick with his irate tone of voice. "Paolo Maldini, a bit of a stink eye 'cos the man won the Champions League five times. But _Ronaldo_? Mate, I knew you was a bit dodgy when we brung you in, but I cannot work for a man who has no idea who Ronaldo Luís Nazário de Lima is."

He punctuates this by slapping two DVDs on the coffee table. Killian barely registers _France '98 World Cup_ and _2002 FIFA World Cup Korea Japan_ before looking back up at Will. "What the hell are you yammering on about?" he asks calmly.

"Football!" Will shouts and Killian blinks at the sincere amount of despair on Will's face. "Robin tells me you don't know your arse from your elbow about footy. I don't got anywhere better to be tonight, you sure as hell aren't doing anything, I am rectifying this situation before this year ends and you begin another as an uneducated git!"

Killian watches, bemused, as Will turns on the TV and pops one of the disks into the old DVD player. "It's New Year's Eve, Scarlet, go out and do something foolish with yourself."

"Nope," Will replies, flopping next to him onto the couch. "Plenty of foolishness to be had here."

There's a long moment of silence as he gets the DVD started. Killian sighs, settling back against the couch. As the pre-game commentary fades into the match, he says, "Will, truly, I'm not in need of company -"

"Jones, this isn't about you, alright?"

He glances at Will sharply, who steadfastly ignores him in return. But Killian can still see the worn expression, the tired droop in his eyes and the purple smudges under them. He wants to ask if this is about Belle or if there's some other unknown quantity of woe in Will's life that he's not privy to, but he has a strong suspicion that were he to ask he'd receive his answer via a blow to the head. Killian nods, turning back towards the TV. "Alright, mate. Now who's this Renaldi fellow?

"Bloody _fucking _hell, you ignorant pillock."

-/-

Emma's about three vodka cranberries into her evening when Ruby starts in on the New Year's kiss. "Okay, so I've been scoping out the area. Unfortunately, the more attractive individuals seem to be paired off already, so I've lowered my - and thus your - standards a bit. There's a cutie at your six -"

Emma swivels in her chair to face Ruby head on. "Ruby. I appreciate the effort. You are my number one pick for a wingwoman. But I'm not -"

"Are you and Killian dating again?" Ruby asks, the sharp wings of her eyeliner making her glare even scarier than usual. "Did you two hook up _again_? Without telling me?"

"No -"

"Emma Swan, do not ring out this shitty year with a terrible excuse. Did. You. Two. Hook. Up?" Ruby asks, poking Emma repeatedly in the leg for emphasis.

"No!" Emma protests, swatting Ruby's hand away. "No, we haven't hooked up."

"Who hasn't hooked up?" Victor asks from behind Emma.

She turns in her seat to talk between them better as he leans on the bar, a pint glass in hand. "No one is hooking up," she says.

"Emma and Jones are a thing again," Ruby says.

"We're not a thing!"

"You should be a thing," Victor says with a shrug, taking a long pull from his glass.

Movement out of the corner of her eye made Emma glance over in time to see Ruby pull Emma's phone out of her clutch. "Might want a better password," Ruby says as she taps in _1234_ and goes into typing a new text.

"Ruby!"

She smirks, sliding the phone over as the text sends. Emma grabs at it, her cheeks burning as she reads, '_Hey y havent we hooked up?_' followed by several obscene emojis.

"He has a shitty old phone, he doesn't even know what an emoji is," Emma snaps. She quickly types, '_IGNORE THAT. RUBY BEING INAPPROPRIATE_', quietly wishing for the ground to open up and swallow her whole.

She definitely doesn't want to look when her phone cheerfully chirps at her that she has a new text. She doesn't want to look, she doesn't want to look, she _doesn't_ \- '_Swan, you wound me. You never shorten words, only phrases._'

"Oh my God, look at the smile on her face," Ruby tells Victor as Emma taps out a response. "Seriously, it's a text and she look like he wrote her a romance novel."

"I do not," Emma says, smiling even wider as she lies right through her teeth.

"You are so ridiculous, both of you," Ruby declares.

Emma slips her phone down the front of her dress - thank God for shelf-bras - and glares at Ruby as if daring her to try and fake-drunk-text anyone now. Ruby just raises an eyebrow, smirking. Emma hears Victor chuckle. "She'll go for it, don't give her an opening," he says, setting his glass on the bar. "Come on, ladies, the night is young, this beat is hopping, and I have some moves to bust."

Emma laughs as Ruby groans, taking her hand and pulling her along after Victor. "You are so _lame_," Ruby complains.

-/-

'_And you type like you're writing in Ye Olden Times_.'

Killian chuckles, then sets his phone to the side as Will shouts at the match on the TV. "Mate, how many times have you watched this?" he asks.

"Not enough - oh bloody hell, that's a red card, ref," Will says, gesturing wildly. "And you, with your nose in your mobile like you ain't got anything better to do."

Killian just shrugs. The match is interesting enough, but it was sixteen years ago. He's certainly starting to see the point of this Ronaldo person, but the match was _sixteen years ago_. This match could legally drive in some countries. This match could legally _drink _in most countries. Ruby roping him in on some banter with Emma is a mite more entertaining.

His phone buzzes again when he's in the kitchen grabbing something to eat. '_Victor and Ruby are being gross._'

'_Are they in public?_' he types.

Her reply is instantaneous. '_Yes._'

Then came a few in rapid succession. '_I wish you were here._'

'_Crap. Forget I said anything. Too many vodka cranberries._'

'_Sorry._'

Killian waits a moment to make sure there aren't any more incoming messages. He sets his sandwich to the side and leans against the counter, trying to decide how to respond. He's gathered that Emma and her friends are out for the evening, probably at a bar or a party, and while he does appreciate the sentiment he's not quite ready to test the limits of his sobriety - nor has he told Emma about said sobriety. '_Love, don't worry,_' he writes. '_I'm well-occupied tonight. Will's here trying to educate me._'

He's back in the living room with his sandwich when Emma responds. '_Oh God, do I want to know?_'

Instead of replying, Killian takes a picture of the DVD cases. Will scoffs. "Mate, just fuckin' ask her out again."

"Watch it, Scarlet."

"I am. I'm watchin' you make disgusting lovey-dovey eyes at a bloody mobile," Will says, propping his chin on his hand. "Don't be a wanker, Killian."

"I'm not," he says, dropping his phone at his side and crossing his arms over his chest.

Will reaches over and rips off a chunk of the sandwich for himself. Killian glares at him, but Will's undeterred, tearing it into smaller chunks to eat. "Seems to me like you is," he says, his mouth half full.

"For a posh boy, you act like you were raised in a barn," Killian snaps, grabbing the rest of his sandwich.

"Work in one, don't I? You lot an' your backwards manners musta rubbed off on me. An' we don't mention the posh bit."

"Sure and you were down for Eton. What your rugger mates must think of you now."

Will punches him in the arm. Killian winces slightly; they'd come to blows once or twice over other nonsense, so he knows Will's holding back, but it still smarts. "Stuff it, you," Will says. "Watch the bloody match."

Killian scoffs, shaking his head and taking a bite of his snack before surreptitiously checking to see if Emma had replied yet.

-/-

Per Ruby's orders, Emma hasn't touched her phone in a few hours. She'd gotten the picture - some soccer DVDs, he seemed to be having some kind of guy's-night-in then - but Ruby had then insisted that if they were going to have a good time phones had to be out of sight, out of mind.

Emma made sure to change her passcode anyway.

Now, as midnight ticks closer and closer, and the dancing is starting to wear off in favor of finding someone to cosy up to, Emma finds herself back at the bar and hovering around hers and Ruby's clutches and nursing some water. She'd stopped drinking about an hour ago and at some point earlier, someone had passed out some silly party hats; Emma thinks her New Year's top hat looks quite dashing, much better than Ruby's headband and way better than Victor's novelty 2015 glasses.

Her hand inches closer to her bag.

Part of her is disappointed that Killian doesn't want to come out, but it's a much smaller part than she'd expected. It would be nice, but she thinks she'd feel worse if he wasn't already doing something. And knowing that he's spending time with someone, doing something equally silly and fun, makes her happy.

It's nice to end the year on a good note.

And maybe… maybe next year they can share a New Year's kiss. End next year on a better note.

She flicks open the latch on her clutch, lighting up her phone screen to see a message waiting from Killian, just one from a few minutes ago. She opens it, grinning when she sees a picture of him cartoonishly puckering his lips over Will's (seemingly) asleep head. There's a caption, '_Should I kiss him at midnight?_'

'_I dare you._'

"EMMA!" Ruby's voice carries over the crowd and Emma looks up.

Ruby's pushing her way to the bar, Victor not far behind her with a party blower dangling out of his mouth like a cigar. "Oh, for God's sake," Ruby grumbles, adjusting her headband. "Come here, if you insist on being technologically addicted, we're taking a New Year's selfie."

Emma holds her phone out as Ruby comes in close, turning her head at the last second to press a kiss to Emma's cheek. The picture comes out pretty good, actually, Emma's surprised laughing face and Ruby's smug profile as she leaves a red lip imprint on Emma's cheek. As the crowd starts to count down to midnight, Ruby leaves her for Victor and Emma sends the picture to Killian, titled, '_Got mine too._'

The crowd reaches zero and the cheers almost drown out _Auld Lang Syne_ piping in over the old speakers. Someone starts setting off party poppers, the party lights catching the metallic confetti and sending colored light scattering everywhere. The DJ starts playing Frank Sinatra, like it's Time's Square and they're in _New York, New York_ instead of tiny bar in Storybrooke, Maine. There's confetti in Emma's hair and she's laughing as Victor dips Ruby in a kiss worthy of a romance novel cover, and even though she knows that it doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things - time goes on the same as it always have, the new day and month and calendar year is only symbolic - something in Emma's chest loosens.

It's been a year. They happen, every 365 days or so. There's good ones and bad ones.

It's been a rough year. It had its ups and downs; some ups were higher than others, and the downs were pretty low. And in a way - well, not that she could do anything about it, but if she had a choice? She actually wouldn't change too much about it. Maybe she would have made a different decision back in September, but she's learned a lot about herself since then - and about Killian, too. She's made her mistakes and learned from them. She's ready for whatever comes next, when he decides he's ready, too.

And she's changed a lot since moving back to Storybrooke, mostly for the better. She'd made new friends, met new people, reconciled old hurts. She has Henry back in a way she'd missed over the last few years. She has a crowded house full of nosy and well-meaning and loving family, and a few new members of the family on their way.

So, it's been a year.

And this is a new one. Blank and waiting to be filled with new memories, new people, new family, new hurts.

New hopes.

Emma's phone buzzes twice. One is from Killian, definitely kissing the top of Will's head and it makes her laugh to think of what might have happened if Will woke up during that. And the other is from Elsa. It's a simple '_Happy New Year!_' message, under a picture: Kristoff and Anna sharing a kiss while Elsa grins, wrapped under Kristoff's other arm and taking the picture.

She sends them the same message, with the picture of her and Ruby - Elsa will appreciate it - and turns back to her friends. Emma hugs Victor, kissing his cheek and brushing confetti from his hair, and Ruby sweeps her up in a bear hug, laughing as the DJ continues through a medley of cheesy music. Victor pushes his way into their hug and they sway as a trio, laughing and stumbling through the lyrics.

It's been a year.

Ruby plucks confetti out of Emma's hair. Emma lets her head fall back as she stops singing, watching the mirror ball reflections spin on the ceiling. Light shines off of metallic streamers and she closes her eyes, listening to everyone else drunkenly try to remember the lyrics to a song that's older than most of them are.

A new year. New possibilities, new chances - maybe only in spirit, but Emma let herself have that hope tonight, here, surrounded by everyone else who clung to that same hope for a better, happier new year ahead.

_And I think to myself, what a wonderful world_.

* * *

Emma gives Phillip a smug look when she walks down to the barn the next morning. "Huge snowstorm, huh?"

He rolls his eyes at her and she grins. "It's better to be overly prepared," he retorts, and her grin widens.

It's not a clear day by any means, but the clouds don't look like snow clouds to her and there's not even a breeze to chill the air. It feels like a regular January day and she's just glad she doesn't have to try and keep the snow clear from any paths or off her car. They're a little understaffed today, Phillip claiming that a lot of the guys called off with hangovers, so Emma has plenty to keep herself busy. She's nursing her own hangover, but she's definitely had worse. And she has less of an excuse to slack off since she lives here.

Feeding has been taken care of in both barns by this point, but most of the stalls still need mucked out and the tack room has slowly been turning into a disaster, so it's been decreed a cleanup day. Phillip already scheduled it to be a rest day for the racehorses, so Emma spends a lot of time doing quick groomings and strapping on blankets. She does get a little bit tired of singing _Happy Birthday_ over and over again while grooming, but Mary Margaret isn't here to do it and Emma figures _someone_ has to.

After making sure everyone's groomed and warm, Emma takes her time leading finicky horses out to their respective pastures. The geldings are starting up a game of blanket tag in their pasture, so Emma makes a mental note to keep an eye out for blankets strewn around the grass in an hour or so. The mares are a more sedate bunch, quietly grazing as Emma walks past their pasture back to the barn to get to work.

Between the group, stall cleanup takes no time at all, and they clear out enough space in the main aisle to move things out of the tack room to give it a thorough cleaning. "New year, clean tack room!" Phillip keeps saying, and if Emma wants to punch him after saying it once, she definitely wants to by the fifth, sixth, and seventh.

The barn cats had clearly been busy since the last time they'd cleaned out; Emma finds no less than three dead snakes hidden around under the cabinets, and one of the guys, Eric, seems to have a knack for continually finding dead mice. "What's the point of these fleabags if they don't actually eat the mice?" Emma grumbles, making a face as another mouse corpse is tossed into the trash bag.

"Feed them less?" Eric asks.

Emma snorts; as if Mary Margaret would allow that. "Be glad they catch anything at all, they're all lazy bags of bones," Phillip says.

They break for lunch, then get right back to it. They wind up tossing out a lot of things taking up space: old and broken harnesses, halters, lead lines. A decent chunk of the medicine cabinet is expired, which worries Emma. "Seriously, we get enough Lasix in every month, we can't check that we need more scrub or drops? And with how often Belle was here? And - Jesus, what the hell is -"

"Emma, it's fine," Phillip says, dumping a ten-pack of expired artificial insemination preservatives. "We have more, we just overbought a lot of stuff. With how often Dr. Lucas has been here over the last few months, it just hasn't been necessary to resupply so much. And we haven't done as much non-local breeding lately, so this kind of thing just went to waste."

She purses her lips, watching Eric dump a box of colostrum from the medicine fridge. "You know we have a foal coming, right?"

"We have more."

Still, Emma runs down to the office to get a notepad. She writes down everything they've already pitched and makes notes on what else gets thrown out, ignoring Phillip's exasperated sigh. She'll talk to David when they get back tomorrow, they can place a big order before their other stuff gets shipped. The guys might say that it's fine and dandy, and Phillip can yell at her later about letting him do his damn job, but she worries anyway - the worst tends to happen at the most inopportune moment.

Such as when a third of the medical supplies are expired.

Once the sweeping is done and the trash is taken out, putting the room back together takes almost no time at all. Emma's starting to feel the hangover a little more now, her bones feeling more leaden than they had that morning and her body desperately craving a shower, but she still has to help bring the herd in for their dinner. After that she can rest. There's still some time before they need to do that, though, so she takes a moment to go check on Princess. She's been out to pasture since before Emma came down and is probably tired too.

The sun's started to set and the wind has picked up as Emma leaves the barn, but it still hasn't started to snow. She smiles to herself, thinking that either this snowstorm to end all storms will pass them by completely or have petered out by this point. However, her smile fades when she notices how much Princess is pacing and lifting her back legs to nudge at her belly. Emma leans against the fence to watch for a while, her brows coming together in a frown.

The blanket hangs too low to see the udder, though the growing darkness would make it hard to see regardless, and if Princess is this antsy then there's no way Emma's going to get in there right now to check if she's started to sweat. One glance tells her that the blanket's thick enough to make it okay if Princess is sweating in this kind of weather, but they should probably bring her in soon.

As she digs in her pocket for her phone, a snowflake lands on her nose.

She pauses, glancing up. Big, fat snowflakes are starting to fall from the sky and there's a pang of regret in her chest for her earlier glee. "Shit," she mutters, pulling her phone out and calling Dr. Lucas. She gets the answering machine at the clinic and taps her foot impatiently, waiting for the message to end. "Hey, it's Emma Swan. I think Princess is close to labor, she's kicking at her abdomen a lot like it's hurting her. I know you'll want to come out to check on the foal, but just giving you a heads up that it's looking like it's soon."

Phillip and Eric are on their way out to help bring in horses when she slips her phone back in her pocket. "No snowstorm, huh?" Phillip asks, grinning.

Emma smiles tightly. She knows it's just payback for this morning, but she's a little too wound up to appreciate the ribbing. "Looks like it."

The horses come in willingly as the snow starts to come down a little faster; all except for Princess, who seems intent on shying from anyone who comes close. It takes Emma and Phillip herding her around towards Eric before he can get a lead line on her to pull her in. "Might have a little one soon," Phillip muses, watching Eric take her in.

"Yeah, I just called with an update before you guys came out," Emma says. "Not the best timing."

Phillip shrugs as they head in. "You know these things can take a while. She might act up for another two or three days before anything happens."

After the evening feeding, they go over the same plans from the day before. "You've got plenty of fuel for the generators if and when the power goes out," Phillip says. "Tweedle Dum and Dee know they're supposed to come in tomorrow as long as there's not a road ban and I'll call them to remind them not to stay up all night drinking again."

"I can handle things here if they can't," Emma says, her confidence wavering only a little as she runs down the list of what needs done. Hopefully the herd had enough playtime earlier that staying in their stalls won't bother them too much until she has help clearing out the pastures.

"Still," Eric says. "Call for help if you need it. Twenty-five horses is a lot for one person."

Emma glances out the office window. It's fully dark now, so she can't tell how much snow has fallen just yet, but if it gets as bad as they say then she's probably looking at handling the farm by herself for a day or two. "If I need it and if it's safe," she says, "I'll call someone."

-/-

Killian brushes snow out of his hair as he stomps a cluster of it off his boots on the porch. _Some way to bring in the new year_, he thinks. The night crew's well settled in, and good thing too; if it keeps up like this there might not be a shift change come morning. There's food enough in the house to keep everyone in good spirits, but if it goes on past a day or two they might be in trouble.

The cats are cosied up on the couch together and ignore him when he sets out their dinner. He tosses another sandwich together for himself, then leans against the counter, staring at his phone. He knows that Emma's by herself at the Point, and he can't help wondering if she's alright. Doubtless she has a plan or seven in place, but he can't help but worry about her overworking herself. It can't hurt to check in on her, right?

She answers on the third ring. "Hey," Emma says, sounding tired. "You guys getting buried over there?"

"Aye, might have some serious overtime pay due by the time this ends," Killian says. "You're alright over there, love?"

She hums a confirmation. "I sent the guys home before it got too bad, they have wives and children and whatever. I'm set here in case everything goes to hell."

He frowns at that. "Did no one offer to stay?"

"We have emergency plans in place. Gus and Keith are coming in if it gets bad, they should be able to drive. Killian really, it's fine, I've got this."

She sounds a little defensive, but perhaps her crew has been badgering her about this as well. "Aye, love, I believe you do," he says soothingly. "I just wanted to ensure you wanted for nothing."

She snorts at that, but it's a laughing sort. "Well, I appreciate it, but I do want for nothing." She pauses for a moment, then, "That doesn't sound right, but I'm kind of too tired to care."

"Busy day, then?"

He putters about the kitchen as she fills him in on the cleansing of the tack room - an unpleasant chore any day of the week. "And I think the foal's coming. Maybe tonight, probably tomorrow night," she adds. "She's too restless for it not to be seriously soon."

Killian pauses, hand hovering over the faucet in the sink. Emma had voiced concerns about handling the foal's delivery by herself. "Emma, are you sure you -"

"I already promised -"

She stops interrupting him so abruptly that he wonders if she's ended the call on him. After a moment, he hears her cursing quite colorfully. "Emma, what happened?"

"Power's out. Fucking fuck… I have to go check the generators, they should have kicked on by now."

The windows rattle with an enormous gust of wind and the lights in the kitchen flicker. That must be what killed the power across town. "Bit dodgy here as well," Killian says grimly, thinking of his own backup generators. "Go take care of that, and call me if you need _anything_, Emma, I'm serious."

"Promise," she says before hanging up.

He weighs his phone heavily in his hand before slipping it into his pocket. _She'll be fine_, he tells himself, washing up.

He does a routine check on his own generator - he trusts that Lewis did the same already for the shedrow - before deciding to make an early night of it. He knows he'll be too distracted by worry to focus on anything else; it's probably best try to sleep it off. He showers and gets ready for bed, leaving the bedroom door open for the cats to come in to steal his body heat when they're ready for it.

And sleep takes a long while to claim him.

The bedding grows too warm from how much he tosses and turns, either waiting for his phone to ring or alert him of a message, or someone to come up to the house with an emergency: surely another disaster would befall them during a snowstorm. He tries the new meditation techniques Tink had taught him, trying to release the worrisome thoughts, but they just claw their way right back into his mind every time. _Stupid, bloody tree nonsense_, Killian thinks, rolling over for what must be the umpteenth time and punching his pillow into a more agreeable shape.

After almost two hours, his phone buzzes with a text from Emma. '_Got the house generator up. Barn's fine. Sleeping out with the horses, all bundled up._'

Another comes in as he processes it. '_Don't worry about me. Will call if I need anything. XO_'

_Sure, and telling me not to worry makes me not worry_, Killian thinks, frowning. She must be concerned about her horse if she's sleeping out in the stables in this kind of weather. It's snug and warm but it's not the house, and he can't help but feel concerned.

But the XO at the end softens the blow a little. Perhaps she'd meant it to, and perhaps she'd also meant it. He thumbs the two letters briefly, like an eejit, then tells her to stay safe and warm before setting his phone back on the nightstand.

He still worries, and it's not long before he recognizes it to be the kind of worry that fuels his desire for a drink. He knows these are insane thoughts, the ones that drive him to drink most often, the intrusive ones that drive him mad, that Tink had been helping him manage before they parted for the holidays, but he worries anyway. He worries about Emma freezing to death out in the barns, or the roof caving in under the weight of the snow, or ten other increasingly unlikely situations. He knows he's tired and it's the weariness that's making him less rational, but he can't shake the uneasy feeling.

His throat is dry for wanting a drop of whisky.

It's the new year and technically his forced sobriety is over - Tink had requested it through the holidays and those are over. He could walk downstairs right now and have a glass and no one could give him any hell for it. He's managed fine, enough distractions and friendly faces to keep the thought of a bottle far out of his mind. But -

He wonders if it's the best thing, to drink now to erase the worry from his mind.

And perhaps this is what Tink had been getting at when she'd made her request. Perhaps she knew, as he does, that he'd relied too often on alcohol to numb healthy emotions because he just didn't want to feel them.

And perhaps he doesn't want to continue this sobriety for her - perhaps he wants to test himself. Perhaps he can have a pint or two someday without the need to numb a memory or a feeling, but for now maybe… Maybe he wants to see how far he can get without that particular crutch.

It doesn't help his worry for Emma, this realization. But maybe that's the point. _She'll be fine_, he tells himself again and again, willing himself to stay here in bed and not get up to do something foolish. _She promised to let you know if she needed anything. She said not to worry. She'll be fine._

Killian repeats that to himself, an droning internal mantra. He doesn't know if it's the boring repetitiveness that finally gets him to sleep or if exhaustion has finally caught him up, but he's glad for a dreamless sleep anyway.

-/-

Whoever thought the invention of the camp cot was a good idea needs a swift kick in the teeth.

Emma's up at the crack of dawn for no other reason than her body refuses to lay on this ridiculous thing a second longer. The wind rattling the barn and the snow piling up on the roof and causing it to creak is absolutely nothing compared to the way her hips are killing her and how her feet are absolutely protesting sleeping in her snow boots. (Sue her, she didn't want to waste time lacing up if something went wrong.) Add in the fact that any noise Princess had made during the night had Emma sitting up and listening intently for several minutes, and she hadn't slept very well through the night.

It works out for the best though, because in the dim light Emma can tell that no one else is going to be able to come in today. There's over a foot of snow on the ground and it's still coming down thick. She sighs and gets the old radio out of the tack room, turning it on for company while she gets the morning feed ready.

The music is interspaced with weather updates: eighteen inches of accumulation so far and the storm itself hasn't blown itself out just yet. They're calling for it to continue into the afternoon, possibly thirty inches or more before all is said and done. Emma sighs, wondering if it's too late to start moving snow around or if she should just wait it out and handle it later. The four-wheeler isn't going to be enough to move that much snow around, and Emma can't hitch the big plow up to David's truck by herself.

She's gonna be stuck for a while.

She also feels silly wading between the two stables; the snow's well up over her knees but it's not too wet so she rethinks the four-wheeler on her trek over to Mary Margaret's barn. She figures that between the time it takes to get between the barns and how long it takes to dole out breakfast and morning medications, she'll be able to get back to the main stable in time to muck stalls, and then switch back; she already feels the headache brewing trying to juggle everything, but she _did_ say, repeatedly, she could handle this by herself.

Now she just has to live up to it.

As expected, it takes most of the morning to get the basics done. Emma's tired and starving and really just wants to get out of these heavy clothes by the time she leads Uncle Tickles back to his stall. He nibbles at her hand when she unlatches his lead and Emma runs her fingers through his thick winter coat, grinning when his ears droop lazily. "Two thousand pounds of teeth and hooves, and under all of that you're just a big softy," she murmurs, giving him another pat before closing the stall door.

She can hardly see the house as she heads out of the barn, the snow's falling so thick. A normally two-minute walk takes close to ten as she stumbles through a sea of snow, falling on her face a few times in the process.

_Fuck this. The four-wheeler can wait_, she thinks as she makes it to the safety of the porch.

She peels herself out of her layers, leaving them in a heap in the mud room. She feels ridiculous showering already when she's going to have to do it all again later tonight, but she feels gross and sweaty and her nose is frozen. And... actually, she's more hungry than anything else, so a shower can wait.

Emma tosses a few grilled cheese sandwiches together and tomato soup, scrolling through a few messages on her phone while she eats. Two are from David, confirming that there's no way they can make it back up from Boston today - she wouldn't have expected them to and tells him so - and there's at least three from Killian checking in on her. '_I'm fine, sorry, it's been a busy morning. Eating now, then shower and sleep_,' she writes to him.

She manages to make it through most of her second sandwich before he replies. '_You had me worried, Swan. Thought I might have to hire a team of sled dogs._'

'_Nah. Lots to do. Tired._'

'_Rest up, love. Let me know if you need anything._'

Emma looks out the window at the snow that hasn't let up at all. She doesn't doubt that he _would_ come out here if she asked him to, but she's not asking him to risk his neck for something she can handle herself. He's already done enough for her, put himself on the line enough times. She can handle this. Even if she is exhausted.

* * *

When she wakes up from her nap, the snow's finally slowed. It hasn't stopped completely, but the light snowfall won't add any more inches to the ridiculous amount that's already out there. Emma stretches, then bundles herself back up with a sigh, deciding to give the four-wheeler a shot. It's not like she has anything else to do.

Plowing goes surprisingly well, even if she does have to do a couple of passes. She's freezing by the time she finishes the driveway, but at least she can get out if need be, or someone else can get in. _Let them try to get out of coming in tomorrow_, Emma thinks smugly as she stashes the four-wheeler back in the shed. The roads should be good by then, and then things can get back on track. Hopefully.

Looking at the sky, she decides it's late enough that it'll be okay to dish out dinner, and then she can take some time for herself before another night in the barn. Her hips are already protesting, or maybe they're still protesting from last night, but she wants to be nearby in case something happens.

And judging by the way Princess is laying down when Emma passes her stall, something definitely is going to happen tonight. "Shit," she mutters, lingering by the door.

The straw is all pawed up, a definite sign of restlessness. She knows it's probably better to leave Princess alone, but the blanket she's wearing is probably too much and might get in the way later. Emma opens the door and eases in, talking softly the whole time. Princess' neck is damp with sweat when Emma removes the blanket, though her breathing is even. "Okay. Stage one," Emma mutters to herself.

Princess gets back up and starts pacing around the birthing box after Emma lets herself back out, which is a good sign. She's got a few hours at most before anything happens, so that's enough time to get everyone else fed and then camp out here for a while. And possibly get Dr. Lucas out here, just in case.

Emma speeds through the last of dinner, then jogs up through the snow to the house for her phone and to grab something to eat for herself. The last thing she needs is to be distracted by hunger. Dr. Lucas picks up on the second ring. "Hey, it's Emma Swan," she says, rummaging through the fridge for something quick and easy. "It looks like it's happening tonight."

Dr. Lucas sighs. "Well, it's going to have to happen without me," she says. "My truck is buried and the plows haven't been by this side of town yet."

Emma's pulse quickened but she took a deep breath to stay calm. "Okay."

"I can try to stop by tomorrow at the earliest to check on how everything went, but I cannot get out there tonight. If you just let her do her thing, there's a reasonably good chance everything is going to run smoothly." 'Reasonably good chance' isn't what Emma wants to hear, but even she knows that 'everything will run perfectly' is not something Dr. Lucas or anyone else can promise. She seems to sense that, because the next thing Emma hears is, "Emma, it's going to be fine. She's healthy, the foal is healthy. There's nothing more you can do but sit tight and let nature take its course."

"Okay," Emma says, but she feels very small as she hangs up.

She doesn't like it.

She ends up reheating the last of the Christmas leftovers, and though Regina's cooking is excellent it still tastes a bit like sawdust in her mouth. Emma's worried. She doesn't like all of this uncertainty, and she definitely doesn't like being by herself to handle all of the unknowns, but she doesn't have a choice.

She calls Killian after she washes up her dishes. "Hey, just talk to me," she says when he picks up, sitting heavily on the sofa. She glances at the clock, figuring she can let him calm her down for twenty minutes before heading back outside. "I don't care about what, I just need you to take my mind off of this."

He makes a noise she can't interpret. "Swan, what's wrong?"

Emma rakes her fingers through her hair; she'll have to find a ponytail holder before going back down too. "I have to deal with this foaling by myself tonight and I'm kind of freaking out over it and I just need you to talk me down from this ledge, okay?"

"If you need me to -"

"No," she cuts him off. He would, she knows he'd come out here in a second if she asked and she - she wants him to, but she needs him to stay in one piece more. She can't ask that of him. "No, I don't want you driving out here in all of this. I can't ask you to do that, I - I don't want you to get hurt because of me."

She doesn't say _again_, because she doesn't have to. She feels very watery and her lip trembles a bit and she absolutely blames it on how tired she is because she knows she's _done_ being all weepy about something that happened months ago. It's a new year; she needs to leave that hurt behind her. Emma takes a deep breath to calm down and hopes he can't hear how shaky it is. "Emma," Killian says, his voice that soothing tone he gets when she's at her worst. "You aren't asking. I'm offering. I have chains for my tires, the plows have been by where I am. If you're that worried, love, I can come out. I doubt I'll be able to offer much except a hand to squeeze when you're nervous, but I've handled a fair amount of foalings in my time."

Emma's quiet for a long moment. She glances outside, where there's snow up past the front porch but it's stopped falling out of the sky at least. "It's dark," she says softly.

"Aye, and I've highbeams."

She closes her eyes, rubbing her forehead. She'd called him to calm down, and now he's only got her more worried. But if she says no, she wonders how quickly he'd come over anyway? "Drive slow," she says, trying to make herself sound stern and probably failing. "Don't rush, Killian, I mean it. There's still a lot of time."

She hears the smile in his voice. "As you wish, Swan. I'll see you soon, then."

"I'll be down in the barn. I'll try not to think you're an axe murderer when you come barging in."

He laughs. "This isn't _Fargo_, love."

"There's enough snow," Emma counters.

"Aye. Well, I promise not to murder you when I get there. See you soon, love."

She smiles as she hangs up. _Idiot,_ she thinks fondly, realizing that even just a little joke has set her at ease. Or maybe it's the fact that he's on his way over.

Either way, Emma bundles up again feeling better about what's ahead. She can do this.

_They_ can do this.

* * *

**One more proper chapter! I'm just as nervous as you are, even if it is one of those chapters that's been fully formed in my head since the start. Thank you as ever for reading, and for leaving feedback!**


	27. January 2-3

**This is it, the penultimate chapter. Much thanks to my beta, idoltina****, for holding my hand through this as I had several minor meltdowns over this monster finally ending. Proper thanks to many other individuals will be given with the epilogue, which should be out soon. Enjoy!**

**Content caution: animal birth, smutty scenes (very plot-relevant, I couldn't cut things down)**

* * *

Emma starts awake at a grinding, screechy sound. She doesn't think, just acts - adrenaline floods her system and her heart pounds in her throat as she scrambles to get up and away from whatever's making that noise. Her foot skids on some stray straw and her heart stops for a long moment before she lands hard on her knee. She winces from the shock, pain shooting up her thigh and reminding her that the rest of her muscles are also sore. The shock also jolts her into full awareness, instead of the half-asleep adrenaline rush she'd been running on. She glances around, taking in the familiar worn wooden half-walls and iron grates, breathing in the scent of old hay and grain and horses as her heartbeat slows and the panic fades.

She's in the barn. She'd fallen asleep sitting against a post. The sound isn't some metal monster out of Leo's cartoons, but the barn door protesting being used in the cold.

Emma gets up slowly, turning as heavy footsteps draw near. What's left of her adrenaline rush and panic fades into happy relief when she sees that it's Killian walking towards her. She doesn't know how long she was out, but that he made it here in one piece is enough cause for relief. "Hey," she says, wincing as she puts weight on her bruising leg.

"Swan, what happened?" he asked, brows furrowed under his thick wool beanie.

She winces again, this time out of embarrassment. "Slipped while trying to get up. I must have dozed off waiting for you, the door scared the shit out of me. Not my best moment. How long did it take you to get here?"

Killian shrugs, reaching up and pulling his hat off; it's warm in the barn and he's dressed for getting stuck somewhere in Siberia. He looks cute all bundled up, and the hat made his hair stick up in all sorts of angles. "Bit more than thirty minutes," he says, pocketing the hat. "The roads are worse out this way, it was smooth sailing for most of it."

"Figures," Emma says. She starts to say something else, but it gets cut off by a jaw-cracking yawn. "Oh God," she says, covering her mouth.

He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes, which search hers worriedly. "Swan, you look -"

"Don't say tired," she warns.

"Radiant," Killian supplies immediately. "And perhaps suffering the effects of doing too much on your own."

"That's a fancy way of saying tired," Emma grumbles, but a reluctant smile pulls at her lips.

He mutters something in Irish as he unwinds his scarf from around his neck and unzips his heavy coat. She follows his movements with her eyes as he tosses both over a bale of hay and pushes his sleeves up. "Right," he says, raking his fingers through his hair to smooth out the flyaway strands. "Where's the patient?"

Emma holds her fingers to her lips and leads him up the row a little. They peek through the bars of Princess' stall; Princess is on her feet, pacing a little. She tosses her head and rolls her eyes at them, as if to tell them to go away and leave her alone; seeing as Emma had been in the stall before her nap to wrap Princess' tail and shovel out some manure, it's a little understandable. Emma watches as Princess kicks her her belly again, then glances up at Killian. His face is hard to read in profile, but she sees the muscle in his jaw jump when he clenches his teeth. She watches him study Princess, until he seems to snap out of it and glance down at her. He smiles tightly, then jerks his head to the left. They walk down to sit on another bale of hay together, where Killian starts to talk quietly. "She's got a few more hours left, I'd say. She kicks during a contraction, I believe, or perhaps the foal is trying to figure out how to get out. She's not sweating so much and she's still up and moving, which is all good. Did you wash her at all?" he asks.

Emma shakes her head. "She was antsy enough with the wrapping and me moving the shovel around."

Killian nods. "Alright, we should do that before it gets any further along. Grab the foaling kit so we have everything on hand."

They get up, but halfway to the tack room Emma stops dead in her tracks. "We threw stuff out," she says faintly.

"Threw what out?"

She licks her lips, trying to remember everything written down in the office. "We threw out a lot - there were so many old harnesses and broken halters, I have no idea why we were even hanging on to them. Saddle blankets no one _ever_ got around to fixing and got eaten by moths or mice or something. And - and then there was like _half_ of the goddamn medical cabinet - surgical scrub and I don't know how you go three years without buying any new rubber gloves but those are gone too, and we threw out _so _much colostrum. They tried to tell me we were alright but I don't know if we'll have enough if the foal needs any, because - well, what if Princess didn't make enough? What - but then there were the medications and I had to stop them so I could write it all down because it's just so _irresponsible_, you know? We had to -"

Then Killian's holding her shoulders and forcing her to look at him. "Hey, Swan, stop. _Stop_," he says over her babbling. He grips her shoulders tighter for a moment and she falls silent. "Alright, _a mhuirnín_, slower. We don't have need for gloves. Is there iodine?"

She nods, and continues to nod or shake her head in turn to his next few questions. When he's done, Killian exhales slowly, raking his hair back from his face. "Alright, well, it could be worse," he says. "Definitely been in worse scrapes. Let's wash her down and we'll worry about the rest when it comes, aye?"

Emma nods again, worry gnawing at her heart. Killian puts his arm around her shoulders and she lets that act as a comfort against her worry. He leads her to the tack room, where she mutely gathers the necessary supplies in a bucket. She chews the inside of her lip every time she goes to reach for something and it's not there, or there are less than she expected. She almost has a heart attack when she opens the fridge and doesn't see any colostrum, but at the last second she remembers to check the freezer too; there's enough in there for one bottle, which will hopefully be all they need. She pulls every packet out and drops them into another bucket with an empty bottle; they can thaw these in warm water while they wait. She _really_ doesn't like looking down at both of the buckets in hand and seeing how little there really is in them. Killian gathers an armload of towels and follows her out of the room. "How many has she lost?" he asks as they walk back down the row.

It takes Emma a moment to realize what he's asking - how many times has Emma gone through this to be so worried. "Just one," she says quietly. "Her first went well, I was there for that one. A colt with a big blaze over most of his face and knobbly knees - well, you know how they are for the first couple of hours. All legs, no coordination. But her second died - I was gone by then, David said it was probably hypoxia but they don't know for sure. I didn't even know about that one until Dr. Lucas confirmed this foal. She said it was more high-risk this time."

"And now you're hypervigilant."

"Yeah."

She hears the smile in his voice as he says, "You wouldn't be Emma Swan if you weren't."

Despite her better instincts, Emma feels herself start to smile. "You're trying to make me feel better about being ridiculous," she says.

She looks up in time to see him shrug. "It's what I came over for, is it not? You were - how did you put it? - on a ledge and needed talking down. So we're still talking you down from it," he says easily. "Nine times in ten a foaling goes smoothly, with no problems. You know about that one in ten, enough that it makes you wary. Perhaps a bit overly wary, of course, but truthfully I would rather be here now, holding your hand through a smooth foaling, than consoling you tomorrow over the one in ten."

Killian glances down and the look he gives her is so gentle, so full of casual affection that it makes her breath catch in her throat. She opens her mouth but nothing comes out; she's not even sure what she should or even could say in response to that. His slight smile widens a little and he nudges her. "Empty out the supplies and get to filling the buckets, love," Killian says. "No time to stand about gawping like a guppy."

Emma rolls her eyes but does as instructed. Killian sets his stack of towels down on their hay bale and she upends the supplies bucket onto it, then heads down to the taps. When she returns - walking carefully the whole way so as not to spill everywhere - he's got one towel draped over his shoulder and a smaller one in hand. He adds soap to the one, and together they ease into the stall.

Princess tosses her head again and stamps her back leg before they even have the door closed. "I know, sweetling, you just want to be left alone. We tiny, eejit humans don't know that you know what you're doing, we keep interrupting you," Killian murmurs. Emma watches in silence as he works his magic, gently stroking Princess' side and speaking to her softly in a mix of Irish and English. Her ears flick back at the sound of his voice and she only stamps her hoof once or twice more before she stills. "Love, hold her head," Killian says, his voice hardly above a whisper.

Emma sets the bucket down within reach and goes to take Princess' halter. She holds Princess steady, stroking her nose and her neck as Killian first cleans off the udder, then her behind. As much as Emma knows he's trying to be quick, he's also trying to be thorough, and Princess is growing antsy again. Emma has to hold on tight every time Princess tries to toss her head, her biceps protesting as she holds on tight. "Did you know you jump every time she stamps her foot?" he asks softly.

Emma looks up. Killian's eyes aren't even on her, he's watching his hands. "What?" she asks.

"When Princess gets restless, you jump. Particularly her back legs. It's a little thing, but it's there."

She glances away. _It has nothing to do with the fact that you're right in the line of fire if she kicks,_ she thinks sardonically. _Or that her hind legs are stronger than her front ones._ "No," Emma says instead. She closes her eyes, trying to shake out the sight of Killian crumpled on the stall floor, hardly breathing, trying to forget the sight of blood on the stable floor during a thunderstorm. She swallows against the roll of her stomach as she remembers Killian's bruised and battered face in the same hospital that she saw the attendants wheel James' dead body out of. She takes a breath to calm herself. "I didn't realize that."

"I got kicked a few days ago."

Her eyes fly open and she looks up at that. "What?"

Killian glances at her briefly before bending to rewet his towel. "Scamp," he explains. "He's been on the aggressive side of late, bashed his head into me ribs a few weeks back, got me good in the hip the day after Christmas."

"You didn't say anything."

"Aye," Killian says. He swipes his towel across Princess' behind one last time, then steps away. Emma keeps hold of her until he gets the bucket and is in the clear. She doesn't realize she's holding her breath until her lungs start protesting; she mentally berates herself for being stupid as she follows him out of the stall to let Princess pace. "I was fair rattled from it, I'll not lie," he continues, draping the used towels over the stall wall. "Once we got him under control, the lads pushed me out and had me sit for a bit. It's the first big blow I've taken since… Well, it took a bit to come back from it."

He doesn't look at her and Emma is hesitant to step towards him; her weariness and worry from the day has worn down what remains of her defenses, leaving her vulnerable and letting old fears of rejection rear up. But she steels herself and steps forward anyway, because too many times over the last year he's needed some kind of comfort and she's been too afraid or too late to give it to him. If she's all in - if he's talking about building something solid, something strong together - then she needs to shake those old fears off. Her hand twitches and she flexes it, then gently presses it against his back. She feels him stiffen for a moment at the unexpected contact, then relax against her. "It's okay to not - to not be okay about it," Emma says, feeling awkward, the words heavy and clumsy on her tongue.

She's a walking emotional disaster, she has no place telling people what's okay and not okay to feel.

"Aye," Killian says. "I know that, even if I do feel like the biggest eejit for it. It's my bloody job, I've taken dozens of hits since I was a lad. But it's the first one since September that had me worried. I thought perhaps he might have broken something, that I'd be laid up again for weeks. He didn't - it just hurts like mad after a while - but I don't like not being able to shake something so common off anymore." He shakes his head, then opens his mouth like he's going to say something else. Emma waits, unsure if she should prompt him, but when her hand moves against his back he closes his mouth again, turning his head away from her. "Regardless, all of that was to say - you get jumpy when it looks like I might get hurt. And… Mostly it's to let you know that things _will_ try to hurt me - mostly giant, easily startled, six hundred kilo animals armed with strong skulls and hooves - and that it frightens me as well."

"Oh."

He pulls away from her and Emma watches him walk down the row a little, sitting on the floor against the wall. She wrings her hands slowly, taking in the way he draws his knees up and runs his fingers through his hair. He's got his brooding face on and she's not sure what to do or say to make it better, or even if she can - if he wants her to do or say anything. She wishes she had magic words - words to make her worries go away, words to make his fears go away, words to keep him safe in the future - but she's never been the talker between them. Killian always seems to know what to say and Emma, she - she seems to have a really great knack for making it worse.

She steps towards him, still feeling hesitant about putting herself out there too much; but she's more eager to let Princess pace around her stall in peace without anyone hovering than she is willing to be rejected again. "Killian," Emma says quietly.

He glances up briefly, not quite looking at her but with a weary half-smile on his lips as he makes a bit of a show of scooting over a fraction of an inch, wordlessly inviting her to sit next to him. She does, copying his pose with her knees drawn up to her chest. "I've such a craving for a glass of whisky right about now," he says quietly. Emma nods, understanding the feeling quite well; anything to settle her nerves would be fantastic right about now. Killian makes a sound that's halfway between a cough and a laugh and Emma looks up to see him shaking his head again. "You know, love, I haven't had a drop to drink since the day - that massive row we had? Yet thrice in the last week I have had to bring myself back from the _strongest_ urge to -"

He breaks off abruptly, looking down at his knees. Her head tilts, taking in the tired lines on his face and the worn out sag of his body - he's been up as long as she has today, and he likely never had the opportunity for a nap like she did. "You stopped drinking," she says slowly, only a hint of a question at the end of it. He nods, still not looking at her. "Was it your choice?"

His head shifts a little to the side. "Not at first," he says. "Tink thought it best to get through the holidays without it, though I hadn't touched the stuff since - well. But I managed it. And last night - last night I thought I needed it. And the holidays were over, so I could have."

"But you didn't."

Killian shakes his head. "I realized, or rather I finally accepted, why she asked me to. I relied on it to a point where… Well, you bore witness to that point. And I realized that… I don't want to get to that point ever again. I don't want to be my - that person who can't accept reality, who has to bury himself until he can't feel anything and forgets. I thought that perhaps, if I'd gone for so long as it stood, I should try to see how long I can continue managing without that particular vice to shore me up."

Emma watches him, her brows knit in concern and her heart hurting for him. She could make an educated guess as to why he might have relied on drink - witnessing a brother and girlfriend being murdered would drive anyone to drastic measures - and she has a guilty feeling that last night, he was worried about her. A small part of her is annoyed because she specifically told him not to worry about her, but the rest of her completely understands that when you care - no, when you _love_ someone, it's impossible not to worry about them. She unwinds one arm from around her legs and puts it around his shoulders, giving him a one-armed hug since she doesn't have any words to act as a balm. He relaxes into her hold and even rests his head on her shoulder; she rests her head against his, her heart still hurting but everything else right now feeling _right_. "I'm proud of you," Emma says quietly.

She doesn't know what prompts her to say it, the words only forming and bursting out before she could rethink saying them. He must be confused too, because he shifts a little in her hold. "Pardon?" he asks.

Emma licks her lips, trying to recapture the feeling of why she'd wanted to say it, how to put that feeling into actual words that made sense. "I - I just am," she says. She starts to move her arm, wanting the safety of holding her legs tight to her chest, but he reaches across and up to take hold of her hand. She knows it's to keep her there, to keep that comfort for himself, but he grounds her in that comfort as well, and it makes the words easier. "When we said - when you told me you were going to get better for me, so we could work, I said that you should be a better man for yourself first." He moves, lifting his head up and moving hers in the process. He turns to look at her and they're way too close - her nose almost brushes his and she can see the green-gray flecks near the center of his too-blue eyes that flick down to her lips every few seconds; she can feel the slight puff of warm air when he exhales and she just wants to reach up and smooth out the wrinkle between his brow, but she sees his eyes look at her lips again and she has to say the rest before he does what she thinks he's going to do. "You did that. And I'm proud of you for it," Emma finishes.

Killian glances back up to her, his eyes boring into hers and he's way too close for her to get a good read on what he could be thinking right now. "I don't know if I did, love," he says. "I'm a selfish man, but I think this was something I ultimately did - or tried to do, at any rate - for selfless reasons. Or one particular selfless reason."

There's tightness in her throat because she knows without asking that he means her. She's had so few people in her life who would do anything for her and Killian has proven again and again that he's one of them, and one of the most reliable people she's ever met. "You're hardly selfish," she manages to say, thinking of Belle and Henry and how he drove over here during a goddamn blizzard because she was worried.

He hums a little and his eyes flick down to her lips again. There's heat in her belly and she wets her lips again and she knows he sees her tongue poking out because his eyes darken for a moment before he murmurs, "Perhaps. But perhaps there's just some things I'm particularly selfish about."

He sticks the '_tic_' in _particularly_ in that way that kind of drives her nuts, because he always enunciates syllables or letters when he's at his most annoying and trying to get under her skin; but she feels herself leaning closer towards him anyway, slowly closing the millimeters that separate them. She hesitates at the last second even as she feels her lips brush faintly against his, but the unmistakable sound of a hoof colliding hard against a stall wall has them pulling apart and looking for the source. "Did she get stuck?" Emma asks.

Killian's fingers are still laced with hers, and he squeezes reassuringly before untangling himself from her. He gets to his feet with a grunt and Emma absolutely doesn't stare at his ass, straw clinging to his jeans, and she's not startled in the least when he offers his hand to help her up.

She ignores the knowing smirk on his face. She brushes straw off her own ass as they walk down the row, glancing in each stall as they go to make sure none of the other horses have laid down and gotten stuck. Princess is laying down when they get to her stall, but she's not on her side. Killian gives Emma's shoulder a quick squeeze. "I'll go check the others, you stay and make sure she can get back up," he says.

She nods, watching Princess carefully. There are dark patches in her thick winter coat where she's started to sweat more and every so often she'll look back towards her flanks with an annoyed toss of her head, as if asking the foal what's taking it so long. Emma smiles, reaching up to grip the bars of the grate; she would say she'd never have thought to find herself agreeing with a horse, but over the years it's happened far more often than it hasn't.

Princess is getting back up on her feet when Emma hears Killian's footsteps coming back up the row. "King is a bit antsy," he says as he draws up next to her. "He's the likely culprit, I'd say."

Emma nods, watching Princess circle again. She backs away, feeling her legs start to wobble from weariness, and makes her way back to the hay bales. She sits down hard, groaning slightly as she braces her head in her hands. "Emma?"

Killian sounds worried and she shakes her head. "Just tired," she mumbles. "Long day. Longer night."

She hears him walk closer. "May I sit?" he asks. She smiles a little; of course he would offer her a seat without asking but then ask for permission to sit next to her. She scoots over and he settles in next to her, pressed against her thigh to knee and warming her side. "You could probably nap and not miss anything," he says. "I'd wake you when things got interesting."

She sighs. "I'm at that 'body tired, brain awake' stage. I'm too wired." He doesn't say anything in response, and she's okay with that.

There's a long stretch of silence, comfortable silence broken only by the soft noises that come out of a barn full of horses. Despite her earlier protest, Emma does feel herself nodding off, jerking back to full alert every so often. "Emma -" Killian begins.

"Don't," she says, effectively cutting him off.

"I was only going to suggest leaning on me," he continues, his tone mild. "That way you aren't in any danger of pitching forward should you lose the good fight against your body."

Oh. Her shoulders sag a little. "Sorry," she mumbles, sitting up and leaning her head on his shoulder. He moves his arm out from between them, draping it across her shoulders for a moment and rubbing her arm before letting it fall around her waist. "I guess I still need to get better about letting people help."

"My stubborn lass," Killian murmurs, pressing his cheek against the top of her head. She hears him take a breath, then pause before saying, "Apologies for earlier, turning this all on myself when you were the one who needed comfort."

"Hey," she says, her tone only a little scolding, "talking me off a ledge, remember?" She yawns, another of the kind that cause her jaw to crack. He's warm and the worn flannel under her cheek is soft. "I'm glad you told me. And maybe you needed talked off a ledge too."

She doesn't want to and she certainly doesn't mean to, but she must have dozed off at some point, comforted by the weight of his arm at her back and breathing in his calming scent. Maybe he had dozed off as well because one moment she's scarcely aware of her cheek pressed against his shoulder and that she should probably close her mouth, but a huge gust of wind rattling the roof startles them both into sitting upright.

"Christ on a bike, cyclin' to Mass on a Friday," Killian swears, scrubbing his face with his hand.

It's wordier than what she would have said, but Emma agrees with the sentiment. She gets to her feet, bouncing on her toes to try and wake herself up, shake out the cobwebs and that spike of adrenaline fear. Killian grumbles to himself behind her as she steps up to the stall door.

Princess is on her side, her coat dark with sweat, and a blueish-white bulge starting to emerge from her body.

"_Killian,_" Emma hisses, her heart in her throat as she looks at the amniotic sac. _Front legs or tail? Front legs or tail? Front legs or tail?_ she wonders again and again, watching as another contraction hits and a bit more of the sac protrudes out.

Her chest feels tight and she runs her nails up and down her wrist, not really scratching but just enough that when Killian steps up at her side he gently takes her hand in his. She glances up to see his look of mild reproof, then glances away again, her cheeks warm from embarrassment. "I said I'd be here to hold your hand through it," Killian murmurs. "And I damn well intend to."

She squeezes his hand in thanks. The next few minutes between contractions pass painfully slow. Emma has to give herself frequent reminders to keep breathing, even as she continues to wonder if the first thing to appear would be the front legs or the tail. At one point Killian has to readjust their hands so their fingers are laced together, murmuring, "You'll squeeze my fingers off before long, _a mhuirnín._"

"Sorry," she whispers, not really meaning it.

She sucks in a breath when Princess shifts, whinnying as another contraction hits; she grips Killian's hand tight. "Breathe, darling," he says, though his voice is tight and Emma doesn't know which one of them he's talking to - her or Princess.

"Please be hooves," she whispers.

Maybe it's a prayer or maybe it's just a plea, but either way it goes unanswered. As more of the amniotic sac pushes out, Killian's wrestling his hand free. "Tail," he mutters, turning back. Emma's hardly aware of herself, feeling disconnected from reality; she turns to watch as he shrugs out of his flannel, leaving him in just his jeans and undershirt. He stalks down the row to where the working sink is, scrubbing his hands and arms with regular soap. She watches in almost a daze as he comes back, grabbing a fresh towel and drying his hands. She follows his motions as he pops the cap on one of the bottles of lube and starts to slather his right arm in the stuff, talking the whole time. "We have to turn it. Emma, you'll have to hold her steady for me, keep her calm while I turn the foal. The sac's in tact, we have time to do this properly, but we can't do this unless you both are calm and steady, aye?"

He looks up as he gets the second bottle ready. Emma's half-paralyzed by fear, but when she looks into his eyes she realizes that he's just as scared as she is. There's a muscle jumping in his jaw as he grinds his teeth, his eyes wide and searching hers even as his mouth is set in a grim line.

_Mostly it's to let you know that things_ will _try to hurt me and that it frightens me as well._

Something in her shifts as this realization settles over her. He needs her to have a cool head, to set aside her fears for the fate of the foal, if he'll get hurt - she knows that breech birth is dangerous and the chances of both dam and foal surviving this are slim if they don't fix it. She knows horses are sensitive to moods around them and that if she's the least bit anxious, Princess will pick up on that and it could make things worse. She needs to radiate peace and serenity so Princess doesn't pick up on her mood.

Emma swallows hard and shoves her fear away. She has to do this, she can keep him safe while he does this risky thing for her - this thing he wouldn't even need to do, this risk he wouldn't be taking if she hadn't asked him to be here.

He does so much for her, most of it without her even asking; she can do this for him.

"I can do this," she says aloud.

Killian smiles, walking towards her. He tips her chin up with his clean hand. "You can do this," he repeats.

"The hooves will be sharp," she whispers.

"Aye, and the womb might close on me hand, but I can manage. Just keep her calm - tell her a story, keep her focused on you."

Emma nods and opens the stall door. The foal hasn't come out any further, though it might be stuck. She starts talking, keeping her voice low and calm, watching as Princess' ears flick back towards her. Killian stays near the door until Emma is sitting, stroking Princess' neck and talking nonsense, anything that comes to mind. She hears him ease the door shut and the soft crunch of hay under his boots before he kneels down. "Alright, Swan, easy does it," Killian says softly.

Princess' ears flick back and she grunts, starting to wiggle as Killian begins pushing the foal back into the womb. Emma blanks for a minute, lost as to what to even talk about, but Princess tosses her head again and Killian grunts from the effort of Princess resisting the foal being repelled back inside, snapping Emma back to the present. "I know it doesn't feel good," she says, watching Princess' ears flick towards her. "He's usually much gentler than this but it's kind of urgent, you know? You want your baby to be healthy, and I know it would hurt me so much if I lost you. I know you're technically David's, but you know you're the first thing that's ever really been mine? Not that you're a _thing_, but - okay, you know what I mean.

"You remember when you came to live here? It was a long time ago, I know, but I remember. It was February, almost six months after I started living here. You were still shiny and new, and James was so proud when he brought me down here and said you were going to be my responsibility. You were _mine_, in everything but the papers. I was supposed to feed you, brush you down after workouts, learn how to take care of your injuries, get you ready for a race. And I hated the thought of it - it wasn't anything against you, it was all me. I was so - so broken at that point, so convinced that James and Ruth would get tired of me and kick me out." Emma swallows past the lump in her throat, remembering the fight she and James had had over this unexpected, unwanted gift, everything up to her name. "Six months, I was so convinced they would come to their senses eventually - everyone else had. My first family, the Swans - they had me for three whole years, but they gave me back when they had their own child. I'd never been anywhere else so long. Six months was about it, I thought I was done for."

She pauses, sniffling and glancing over her shoulder. Killian's face is screwed up in concentration, red and beaded with sweat. "Keep talking," he says through a grunt. "Almost got him."

Princess shifts again, whinnying as Killian curses under his breath. Emma quickly lays down, pressing her cheek against Princess' neck, hoping the weight is enough to keep her fairly still. "But you came along and James was such a stubborn ass about it. He got me up at the crack of dawn so I could feed you and clean out your stall before I had to shower for school. I learned to ride with you, remember? You were impatient with me, you almost threw me the one time but I managed to hang on - I think you respected me more after that.

"And it wasn't until my next birthday that I realized we were in a pattern. We'd had a breakthrough at some point and I missed it, because I'd gotten comfortable. I'd been here for more than a year, they weren't kicking me out, I had a home. I had you. You helped me realize that I was here to stay, because you were part of my routine. And I got so much better because of you - remember how we used to fly, riding out over the hills during the summer? We'd just - we'd _run_, and there was nothing else like it in the whole world, and I felt like I left all of my worries behind because you could outrun them. Maybe we can fly again this summer, prove we're not too old for it yet. You and me, we'll get you a foalsitter and we can just - we can just _go_. How does that sound?"

Emma keeps talking, breathing deeply when Princess does, stroking the mare's cheek. She winces only once, when Princess moves one of her front legs and clips the back of Emma's calf, but otherwise there's no injuries to anyone by the time Killian says, "Alright, he's good."

She waits, wanting Killian to be in the clear before she gets up, but then she hears something fluid hitting the hay and he's swearing again. She wants to get up, but she hasn't heard him move. "What happened?"

"Her water broke. Jeans are fucking soaked, bloody _hell_."

She rolls her eyes as Princess moves under her again, the whinny sounding more pained this time. "Clothes can be washed, now _move_."

She hears him scramble to his feet and the door opening. Emma gets up slower, moving out of the way towards the door and glancing back in time to see hooves emerging this time, still covered in the deflated amniotic sac.

Killian's wiping his arm off with a towel as she gets out of the stall; his jeans _are_ fairly soaked through, and his white undershirt is dark with sweat and dirt. Emma smiles tightly, mouthing a _thank you_ before they both turn watch as more of the legs emerge. Princess rolls a few times and Killian frowns, walking back through the door and standing off to the side, watching closely. When the nose emerges, he moves quickly, peeling back the membrane so the foal can breathe. Emma stops breathing as he swiftly wipes out the foal's nose in practiced movements, only inhaling when the foal lifts its head up in protest of the intrusion. Killian backs off as Princess grunts, her sides heaving as she recovers from the contraction. He waits a moment, then does it again, the foal kicking slightly and lifting its head as if to shake him off. Emma smiles as tears prick the corners of her eyes, her smile widening to a grin when Killian looks back at her with a grin of his own to match.

He gets up, exiting the stall and letting Princess finish the job on her own. "Aye, she's an old hand at this," Killian says, putting his arm around Emma's shoulders and hugging her close to his side.

Emma just nods, completely shameless with the tears rolling fast and thick down her cheeks. She feels like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders, letting her breathe freely and all of this happiness flooding her body. The foal is alive, already making tiny squeaking protests against the indignities of birth. Its coat is dark from the amniotic fluids, but when it dries it'll likely be a chestnut color; there's a splashy white star on its forehead, and a snip of white on its nose, and the front left leg has a stocking while the right is bare.

She leans against Killian, putting her arm up around his waist. The rest of the foaling goes smoothly, the foal's chest rising and falling rapidly as its back legs slide out, but she knows that's pretty normal. After a while, Princess sits up, whickering softly as the foal struggles to figure out how to sit up too. Emma reaches up and wipes at her cheeks with the heel of her hand. "God," she mutters, laughing weakly.

"Aye. But he's here and he's well, and we can all count our blessings for that," Killian says, sounding tired.

As Princess starts to clean her foal, Emma looks up at Killian. He looks every bit as tired as she feels, but she swears he's never looked more handsome. He's here and he exhausted himself for her after they both had to deal with forty-odd horses combined through a blizzard, and he's _here_. Her heart feels so full, and words just want to come spilling out of her mouth. "Thank you," she says softly.

He gives her that lopsided smile of his. "It's no matter, Swan, truly."

"No," she says, turning to face him fully. Her arm's still around his waist and he turns with her, raising an eyebrow curiously. She swallows, feeling her heartbeat start to pick up. "It's not nothing. It's - Killian, I don't know how to tell you how much this means to me. Not even that I would have been in a lot of trouble earlier without you, but that you just - you're always there if I need someone."

Even in the dim light she can see the tips of his ears turn pink and two spots of pink forming on his cheeks. "Swan -"

"Please, just let me get this out," she says softly. "You do so much and I - I don't have words for how grateful I am. I didn't have anyone on my side until I was fifteen. I'm really bad at letting people help me. And I - you -" It's overwhelming, the gratitude she feels, the _love_ she feels for this man. Her mouth works for a moment as she tries to put it into words, but she's not even sure the words exist to describe how she feels.

He would know them.

Her eye flick down to his lips, then back up to his eyes; he's still watching her warily. She wishes she had the words to make that wary look go away, but she's always believed that actions speak much louder than words. "And I - I think we were interrupted earlier," she whispers, and with very little hesitation, Emma rises up on her tiptoes and kisses him.

He grunts in surprise, but he doesn't pull away. The arm around her shoulders moves, his hand sliding up into her hair while the other moves around her waist. His lips slide against hers, her tongue teasing him to open to her. He groans into her mouth, the hand in her hair pulling her roughly to the side as he deepens the kiss, making her gasp as he pulls her flush against him. Heat builds in her belly as her tongue slides along his, the scratch of his stubble on her cheeks and chin making her knees weak, but even as she feels his desire growing against her stomach he pulls away. "Emma," he breathes, resting his forehead against hers.

He's trembling, ever-so-slightly. "What's wrong?" she asks.

"Emma, I don't - Jesus and all the saints, I _do_ wish to tumble straight back into bed with you, darling, but -"

"You're not ready," she finishes, feeling her heart sink as her happiness starts to fade. She knows that, knew it before she kissed him, before he even got here, but still she just had to go and push his boundaries, stupid, _stupid_.

"No," he rasps, holding her fast as she tries to pull away and put space between them. "No, Emma, my love, please don't misunderstand me. I don't - I may need to move at a slower pace than we did before, but." He pauses and her heart starts a cautious climb back up to it's proper place in her chest. _Move at a slower pace than before_ sounds an awful lot like _I want to be with you again_, but she'll wait to hear him say it, even if it kills her. "I've had some time to think. And I've had a lot of meddling eejits talking my bleeding ears off about it, about what sort of man I should be, what I look for in love, about the foolish way I look at me phone when you send me a message."

"What foolish way do you look at your phone?"

Killian huffs a laugh and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes deepen. "Like a wanker," he says. "With stars in my eyes or some gobshite."

She smiles; that sounds like something Will would say. "Ruby said something similar," Emma admits. "Like you wrote me a romance novel."

"I'd want to do better," Killian murmurs, chuckling low. "All that piña coladas and getting caught in the rain, the long walks on the beach at sunset sounds nice and all, but I'd want to do more. I want -" He pauses, looking down. Emma's holding her breath again, not wanting to break the moment, waiting for him to find his words. He draws a shaking breath. "I wish to give you all sorts of lovely things, Emma, anything that brings a smile to your lips. The sort of life you deserve, one filled with love and warmth and happiness. A home, perhaps. A future."

Her heart feels so very full even as it races under her breast. "I want it," she whispers. "With you, I want that future. I've thought so much about it lately, what it could be like, but I'm scared -"

"Me too," he says, and she matches his nervous chuckle with her own. "I'm so bloody terrified that you'll realize I was a mistake."

But she's shaking her head. "Killian, I -" The words get stuck in her throat; she wants to say them but they don't come out. "I'm scared of the same thing," she says instead. His eyes shift a little, as if he knows what she didn't say and he's a little hurt by it. She smiles apologetically. "You heard - I spent a lot of time thinking no one cared about me. But you've proven over and over again that you do, that you'll step up when no one else will. And I'm still scared that you'll realize I'm -" She cuts off, not wanting to voice the thought aloud again, thinking that maybe they'll tempt fate by both saying it. "I think if we really try," Emma says, "if we promise to be open with each other and support each other..."

"No secrets," he adds, and she remembers the letter from Neal, the way she'd felt when Killian was holding back that he loved her.

"Giving each other space to cool off," she says, remembering their first big fight.

His hand slides from its place behind her neck to cup her cheek, gently tipping her head up a little further to look at him properly. "I'd like to do right by you this time," Killian says softly. "Treat you as you deserve."

"You already -"

His hand slides a little further up, shushing her with a finger to her lips. "Let me finish, love, please. I know I've wooed you in the past and spent many delightful nights in your company, but I've been selfish and kept you all to myself. Let me take you out, properly this time. We'll take things slow: dinner and the cinema, that sort of thing. And then perhaps, if things go well, I may invite you in for coffee."

Emma finds herself smiling at this slightly old-fashioned picture he's painting, though the way he says _coffee_ is absolutely sinful. "Awfully confident," she teases. "I don't go barebacking on the first date, you know."

She knows he doesn't mean right away, but this is comfortable, this familiar banter between them. She shivers when he pulls her tight against him again. "I may be a feckless eejit who finds himself more at home in a shedrow than a proper house, but I can be a gentleman," Killian says, his voice low, his nose nudging hers as he leans in closer. "What do you say, love? Will you go out with me again?"

Their lips brush and her cheeks hurt from smiling so much, but just before she closes the gap between them, she whispers, "Yes."

They don't get very far, this teasing slide of lips and hands wandering along safe areas like his back and the nape of her neck, before a squeak and the sound of shuffling hay bring their attention out of this small bubble of happiness. They looks over to see the foal attempting to get its legs under some sort of control; Princess is already on her feet, looking on expectantly. Emma bites her lip to keep from laughing as the foal stamps one hoof impatiently, forces itself up and then promptly tumbles over; the foal sits up and looks around, as if wondering what just happened. Killian doesn't hold back, his chuckle deep and rich in her ear. "Aye, little lad, you'll get the hang of it in a moment," he says encouragingly.

"Little lass, actually," Emma says, nodding towards the distinct lack of male anatomy.

She looks up at Killian, grinning as he makes a face and nods. "Aye, pardon. Little lass."

The foal shakes her head, her ears flicking back as Princess whickers encouragingly, lipping the little fringe of mane between the foal's ears. Her little chest rises and falls rapidly as she reassesses this whole standing up business, looking back at her mother as if to ask if this is really necessary. Emma smothers a laugh with her hand this time, leaning against Killian as they watch. Princess nudges the foal again and she shakes her head, stamps her hoof, and forces herself up again.

For a moment, Emma thinks she's got it, the long matchstick legs trembling from the effort, but then she sinks slowly, long limbs splaying further and further out as she loses traction, landing on her stomach. She tries a third time, this time forgetting that her knees are not feet and toppling over sideways when she fails to get up on her front legs. It's around this time that Emma notices that the front leg is the only one with a stocking, her back two hooves crowned with coronets.

The foal gets it on her fourth try, standing up on legs that shake, but she manages to keep standing before taking a few tentative steps towards Princess. Killian squeezes Emma around the shoulders briefly and then moves; she glances back to see him getting the iodine and a cup. "We'll take care of this while she nurses," he says quietly and Emma nods. Cleanup isn't the fun part, but it's necessary.

Killian takes care of the umbilical cord while Emma prepares the bottle of colostrum; the foal doesn't nurse for long and it worries her. Killian just gives her a look of gentle admonishment as they trade places; she makes a face at him as she settles in on the straw, coaxing the foal to her for a meal. She'd rather do feeding and soothe her own worries than weigh the placenta and possibly spawn a whole host more.

Princess hovers nearby, picking at the straw on the floor and nosing the foal's flank. Emma's satisfied when most of the bottle is gone, figuring it makes up for the short nursing earlier. She slips a towel off from around her shoulders and gives the foal a quick rub down for good measure, then does the same for Princess; she'll leave the blanket off for tonight so the foal doesn't get too confused. As she slips out of the stall, both dam and foal nuzzle one another.

It's only now that she remembers her phone in her pocket. She probably could have sent David updates over the course of the night, but she rationalizes that she might have only made him needlessly worried. Everything's fine now. She notes that it's well after midnight before she snaps a picture and sends it to David. She adds a short message, '_It's a girl!_'

Killian's voice comes from behind her. "Everything looks fine, but I've put it on ice to preserve it for the good doctor to check."

Emma nods. "She'll probably be here tomorrow - or today, I guess. If she's dug out at that point."

She yawns again and feels Killian's hand at her back to steady her. "Let's pick up and get you to bed, love," he murmurs and even though she knows the statement is innocent, she still feels a spark of heat in her belly.

"Shower first," she says. She feels gross and she wasn't even the one with half her arm inside a horse earlier.

"Aye, well, I'll escort you to the house and you can do what you like after that."

He shrugs back into his shirt while she layers up. She's shoving her hat down around her ears as he winds his scarf around his neck again, and together they walk down the row, flicking off lights as they go. "I can't remember the last time I was so tired," Emma says. "Remind me to text Phillip and tell him he's on duty no matter what, I'm sleeping for a week."

"Aye, text Phillip and tell him he's on duty," Killian says, his voice teasing as he reaches for the door.

Emma smacks his arm but he probably doesn't even feel it through all his layers. He wrenches the door open, both of them wincing at the metallic shriek, and they stop dead.

It's snowing again.

"God damn it all," Emma says with a sigh.

"Well, this is unfortunate," Killian says.

They step out into the night, her boots sinking into a few new inches of fresh powder as he closes the barn doors. "If David names her something like Blizzard or Snowflake, I swear I'll smack him," she mutters.

"Which means he's sure to do it," Killian says easily, slipping his arm around her as they walk. "Brothers do such things."

She smiles despite herself. Maybe he'll tell her more about Liam someday. They have time now, all this time to talk and get to know each other better, all this time to lay out a foundation for a strong future together.

One of them trips over a hard lump of snow, bringing the other down with them. Emma's not sure which of them did the initial falling, only that her face is now cold and full of snow. Killian laughs as he rolls over. "Oh, bloody hell," he says, his laugh tinged with a sigh.

"You're not driving home," she says, pushing herself up on her knees. "I don't want you crashing into a snowbank and freezing to death."

"Why, Swan, it's almost like you care about me," Killian says.

His tone is light and teasing but she's overcome by the fact that she still hasn't told him that she loves him. The words are still stuck in her throat, though, still not ready to come out even as she looks down at him in the dim light; she can't make out his eyes but she can see his hat and coat and cheeks are lightly dusted in snowflakes and she really, _really_ wants to kiss him right now.

And with a grin, she realizes that she can. So she leans over him and does.

He groans into her mouth, reaching up and gripping the hair that spills out from under her beanie. She braces her hands on either side of his head, nipping his cold lips and giggling when he tries to bite back and she pulls out of reach. "Come on, let's go in," she says, getting up and offering her hand.

The house is warmer than outside and she welcomes it in relief. They shed their winter gear and Emma goes to the laundry baskets on top of the washer while Killian struggles with his boots. "Here, you'll fit in David's stuff," she says, taking out pajama pants and an old shirt. "There's a shower in the basement," she opens the basement door and flicks on the switch, not envying him at all. She's been terrified of going down there for years, but it's where David showers when he's particularly grimy. "You can toss your clothes in the wash here when you're done. I'll make up the couch for you, okay?"

He steps forward and cups her face in his hands, kissing her sweetly. "The couch?" he asks, his voice teasing even as it's low and deliciously husky.

"You said slow," she reminds him, a bit breathless herself.

"Aye, I suppose I did. Thank you, Swan."

She doesn't want to untangle herself from him, but they both need to shower and they both desperately need to sleep. She leaves him to the basement as she hurries upstairs to shower and get into her pajamas.

The shower in the basement is still going when Emma comes back downstairs with blankets and a pillow; she wonders if he's trying to scald himself clean or if it's too cold for him to consider getting out yet. She dumps the load of blankets onto the floor and begins to make up the couch for him, keeping her hands busy so her brain shuts up for a while.

_Slow_. Two floors between them is slow. It'll be fine. She _wants_ it to be fine.

It's kind of not fine.

She sighs shakily, clutching the pillow to her chest and telling herself to stop overthinking. They're going to try again. They're going to go on dates, have dinners and go to a movie or something. Take things slow, relearn each other. They can do this. He can do this.

_She_ can do this.

_Go find Tallahassee_. _Even if it's without me_.

"Swan?"

Emma jumps and whirls around, still clutching the pillow to her chest. Killian's in the doorway, his damp hair sticking up every which way. The lights from the Christmas tree throw colorful shadows all over his borrowed pajamas and her heart speeds up at the apologetic grin on his face. "Hi. Didn't hear the shower turn off," she manages to say.

"You look a little skittish," he says, taking a step forward.

He's watching her with a cautious look on his face, like he's nervous about coming too close. Emma knows he's just as wary, just as nervous about starting again as she is, but for some reason it's hitting her all over again like it's brand new. Even though they've talked (flirted, shown each other affection, _kissed_ for God's sake) since their big fight, apologized and kind of made up... this is different. They'd said and done things that would make anyone uneasy about trying to rekindle the almost effortless intimacy they'd had before; it's terrifying to let someone in close, especially when they've already shown just how easily they can hurt you.

But sometimes the scariest things are the things most worth doing.

And it's the fact that he's scared too that makes her walk towards him, closing the distance and pressing the pillow into his arms. "Just thinking," she tells him.

He's watching her carefully, hugging the pillow. "About anything in particular?" His head drops a little so that his nose rests against the pillow; she knows from the lines around his eyes deepening that he's smiling as he inhales. "This smells like you."

"Those are my blankets too," Emma says softly. "I was thinking about us. What we were talking about earlier." Killian doesn't reply, still watching her, and she gathers her courage. "I'm scared that I'm going to get… that it'll be too much. But I'm more scared of losing you again."

She licks her lips nervously. He's still not saying anything, maybe sensing she hasn't finished yet. She wants to say the things she didn't earlier, the things that got lost when she didn't have the words. "I… someone told me to go find the thing that makes me happiest. To stop being afraid of being happy and grab onto it with both hands. And that's you." His eyes widen a little and she reaches up to grip one of his hands in both of hers. She didn't say this in the barn earlier and she's been kicking herself ever since. "I love you. And I know that's fast and we said we were going slow, but I didn't say it earlier and you keep giving me this _look_ and I don't want you to look at me that look anymore like maybe I don't love -"

He cuts her off, dropping the pillow and surging forward to press his lips against hers and _oh_.

It's almost like a million people had been talking all at once inside her head and someone suddenly hit a mute button. There is only the feel of his hard body against her, his hand buried in her hair and his arm around her waist, his lips teasing and nibbling hers, each point of contact almost burning her up with the intensity and at the same time keeping her grounded.

Emma and Killian. Here and now.

It's slow. It's remembering the little grunts and sighs he makes when she nibbles back, when she slides her tongue along the seam of his lips and he opens for her. It's relearning the taste of each other. It's how easily her arms wrap around his neck; it's feeling his erection against her stomach; it's the little butterflies in her stomach at remembering how much of an effect they have on one another. It's rediscovering where they fit together.

It's repairing the hurt they'd caused each other.

It's like a balm on her soul.

She doesn't even realize her hands are toying with the hem of his shirt until he murmurs, "Slow," against her lips.

She giggles, kissing him again. _She's_ not the one with a hard-on; she feels a _tiny_ bit bad about that, wondering if she should offer to take care of that for him or if that's the opposite of _slow_. Regardless, she feels light, content. _Happy_. "This is slow."

"Mm, very," he agrees, gently catching her lower lip in his teeth as he rolls his hips against her.

A shiver rolls down her spine as he releases her. She'll take that as a _no_ \- that offering to help is definitely not _slow_ \- but her body remembers that movement, and she can feel herself responding, nipples tightening, wetness between her thighs. She closes her eyes as he kisses her forehead, lips lingering against her skin; despite the air of arousal between them, she can feel his muscles relaxing just as she feels the tension ease from her own body. It's comfortable. It's familiar.

It's terrifying.

They're scared, but they can be scared together.

Emma lays her head on his chest, tucking herself against him as close as she can. She can hear his heart beating right under his ear, the quick rhythm slowing to a soothing beat as they hold one another. "We should rest," Killian murmurs, his arms not moving from around her.

"Yeah," she agrees, not moving her body away from his.

When he stumbles back and her heart lurches with fear before he catches them both, she realizes they're both falling asleep on their feet; it's been a long day - a long and _emotional_ day. They start to laugh at their own foolishness. They kiss once more before he lets her go, using one untangled arm to brush her hair back with his fingers, tucking one piece behind an ear; she feels warm at his touch, warmer still at the gentle smile on his face. Reluctantly, Emma steps away and unplugs the tree, remembering at the last second to give him his forgotten pillow. She squeezes his fingers and it's a slow slide, a stretch before she walks far enough from him to let him go completely. "Goodnight Killian," she says softly.

"Goodnight," he whispers.

Her room is chilly still but she bundles herself under the covers and hugs her pillow tight. There's an ache in her chest where her regrets live, one that's seriously reconsidering the _slow_, but she knows it's important. They barrelled into it last time and she's not making the same mistake twice.

They're going to make this work.

-/-

His feet are cold on the worn floorboards of the stairs, but he's forgotten something. He's loathe to bother her - she's exhausted, poor lass, handling the whole of the farm on her own all day and a foaling on top of it; she needs her rest - but he's forgotten something important and after he'll let her rest. He knocks on the door to her attic domain as a precaution, then opens the door and ascends the cold stairs. It's easily ten degrees colder or more in the stairwell, he can't imagine how she's comfortable sleeping up here. "Emma?" Killian calls softly. "Bloody hell it's freezing up here."

As he reaches the top of the stairs, he discovers how she's comfortable: there are at least two space heaters that he can see, the orange 'on' lights glaring in the darkness. He hears Emma fumble for a moment, and then a small lamp turns on. It appears she's also sleeping under at least four blankets, creating a warm little nest for herself. "Killian, what is it?"

She looks dazed, likely shaken out of sleep already and he feels bad for rousing her, but his heart swells with love at how she looks with her hair mussed and burrowed as such under her blankets. "I forgot something," he says, walking over to her.

Her mouth opens slightly, likely to ask what it is he forgot, but before she can speak he covers her mouth with his in a kiss, this one a little rougher, a little needier than before. She's a knowing minx - likely well aware of the effect her love has on his body and the way she left him earlier - but even as he takes out his desire with this kiss, the little sighs that escape her only make him all the more needy for her. But he's promised slow, promised to be a gentleman, so he leaves her with just the kiss, another promise for more eventually. "I love you," Killian says when he pulls back.

Emma smiles, her cheeks flushed and a little out of breath. "I love you too."

He loves the little flush on the apples of her cheeks, the sparkle it lends to her eyes. He reaches up and gently brushes his thumb across one. "I don't want to go another day without telling you at least once."

"At least?" she asks coyly.

_Minx_. Killian leans forward, pressing his forehead to hers. He's in dangerous waters here, close to just climbing into bed with her and sleeping here, but he's drawn to her like a moth to a flame. "At least," he says, nodding. "I plan on saying it many, many times, but I'm allowing for sick days or travel."

"Very astute of you."

"I like to plan ahead," he says, even as his knee comes to rest on her bed.

She's slipping back and he stays with her, almost until she's resting fully on her back again. He pulls back slightly, opening his eyes to her sleepy pout. "God, Killian, please just - stay here with me? Just hold me," she whispers.

He's already pulling the covers aside, but his conscience makes him ask, "What happened to slow?"

At this moment, he doesn't really bloody care what they define _slow_ as. He has Emma within reach and he feels calmer than he has in weeks just from the thought of holding her. Emma latches on to him almost immediately when he gets under the covers; he reaches up to turn off the light before cocooning them both in blankets. "This is slow," she sighs, her arm a comfortable weight around his torso.

She tangles their legs together, her free hand gripping his shirt as if she's afraid he might pull away. As he settles an arm around her and rests his nose against her hair, he feels her relax as she almost immediately falls asleep. _Poor lass is tuckered out_, he thinks, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I love you," Killian murmurs again, closing his eyes and following her into sleep.

* * *

He wakes quite suddenly, aware that he's overly warm and that it's still dark. He's on his back and wondering where he is and what time it is. For a moment he's unsure what woke him up - his alarm isn't blaring away - but then he feels gentle fingers probing and pressing against his left arm. "Bloody hell," he mutters, reaching up and rubbing at his eyes as last night comes back to him in a rush. "Swan?"

"Your left arm got twitchy," she says softly, continuing her soft exploration. "It woke me up."

"Aye," he mumbles, rolling onto his side to face her. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness enough that he can just make out her form. "It does that occasionally. Souvenir from Bluff, they're unsure if it'll go away completely or worsen as of now."

Her fingers still. After a moment, he feels them slide down to his hand. She brings his hand up to her lips, kissing his palm and leaving a trail of them down to his wrist. He cups her cheek, her skin soft under his fingers as she lets her hands slide up his arm. "I'm sorry," Emma says quietly.

He shakes his head. "It's all right, love. I wasn't aware it did that as I slept. I'm sorry to have woken you." With a grimace, he sits up, raking his fingers through his hair. "Loathe as I am to leave you for even a moment, I should let Will know to get on without me today."

Killian glances down to see Emma fighting a smile. "Really?"

He leans back on his elbow, gently tucking some of her hair behind her ear. "I believe I'm under orders not to drive home," he tells her, his voice light and teasing, "because someone is under the impression I'll drive right into a bank of snow and freeze to death."

He can't see her grin, but he feels it when he leans down to kiss her. She eagerly accepts his kiss and he resolves then and there to do his best to make her this happy for as long as she'll allow him. "I'll be back in a mo', love," he murmurs, kissing her again for good measure.

"Can you bring my phone up? I forgot to text Phillip," she says, settling back under her blanket mountain as he gets up into the chilly air.

"After I reminded you and all."

"Oh hush."

He shakes his head, then makes his way downstairs. A glance at the clock in the kitchen tells him it's a bit past six, well past his normal schedule; likely Will's already started things without him, and if they're lucky, the Point's crew has shown up today as well.

Killian takes a second to take his clothes out of the wash and toss them in the dryer, then fishes both phones out of their respective coats. There's a missed call from Will on Killian's phone, and a message on Emma's from Phillip. Killian sends a text to Will with as few details as possible, then leaves it in his coat before heading back upstairs. "Here, love," Killian announces as he tops the stairs. "Seems he's already in for today."

He passes the device off to her as he slips back under the covers. He hears her nails clicking against the screen for a moment, then she sets it up on the headboard. "Told him to hold down the fort and turned it off," Emma says, tucking herself against him again.

"Good. No interruptions," Killian says, settling his arm around her again. She hums an inquiry at that, a sinful one full of innuendo and promise, and heat rises in his cheeks - Jesus and all the saints, she's turned him into a schoolboy again. "I meant you getting your rest, love," he clarifies. She hums again, but this time in agreement and possibly a bit of impudence. "What, you don't think you need any more rest?" Killian asks.

"I know I do," Emma says with a sigh. "Yesterday was a long day, and I didn't sleep well the night before. Less than five hours of sleep isn't nearly enough."

"Then sleep, love. I'm not going anywhere," Killian says, punctuating it with another kiss on top of her head.

She nods against him, then presses herself against him even more; if he didn't know any better, he'd think she was trying to crawl inside him. He strokes her back soothingly, occasionally catching the ends of her silken hair in his fingers. Her breathing evens out, but he can tell she's not asleep quite yet. "I can hear you thinking, Swan," he murmurs.

"'m not," she mumbles. "Just… enjoying. I missed this."

"I missed it too," he admits.

Emma shifts up a little in his arms, leveling herself to face him more directly; though it's still too dark to see her properly he can feel her exhaling, gentle puffs of warm air on his chin. "You're the first man - first person, really - besides me to sleep up here, you know?"

"I'm honored, love."

"I'm glad you're the first," she says quietly, almost hesitantly.

_And hopefully the only_, he thinks, but dares not voice it aloud. There's a voice in his head that sounds like Liam telling him not to jump things again, and he's inclined to agree. He hasn't properly heard Liam's voice in weeks, but occasionally these days Killian will have a fleeting thought that reminds him of something his stoic elder brother might have said. Liam spent much of their time together guiding him, keeping him on the straight as much as he was able. Lately, Killian finds himself wondering if he's just been trying to substitute that absence of guidance since Liam's death.

It's something he intends to discuss with Tink soon. Surprise her for once, bringing up a topic instead of her probing him into speaking.

Killian shakes his head slightly, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand: the rising urge to kiss Emma senseless. He closes the distance between them, her lips parting for him almost immediately. He sweeps his tongue along hers, her moan delicious to his ears, her hands gripping at his sides. His hands slide under her shirt and skim up and down the smooth expanse of her back; he chuckles when he skims a ticklish spot and she squirms against him. "What happened to slow?" she breathes against his lips, kissing him again before he can answer.

He passes over another ticklish spot and she giggles, jerking hard up against his chest. "This is slow," Killian says. To prove how slow it is, he slides one hand up her side, just skimming the side of her breast. "If this wasn't slow, then I'd have palmed your breast. I'd squeeze it, draw those lovely sighs from your lips, make you moan my name."

"Y-yeah?" Emma asks, sounding out of breath. Killian grins at the stutter, repeating the motion and savoring her sharp inhale. "What else?"

He raises an eyebrow, well aware that she can't see his intrigued look. They're treading into dangerous waters here, but he has to admit that while he really would like to stick to slow, part of him desperately misses her. But surely just telling her what he desires, what he's going to share with her when they're reforged and strong, surely just _telling_ her is all right.

Killian slides his hand down her side again, settling on her waist and thumbing at her waistband. "I'd kiss you," he says softly. "God but I have missed kissing you, lass. I'd kiss your lips, I'd mark your neck, I'd suck your breasts. I'd put my lips on every patch of skin I could reach. Your hands would be in my hair and make it a right mess, you'd be panting out pleas and cursing my name to hell and back."

He brushes his thumb against her skin and she inhales again. He's sure she can feel him, half-hard already just from imagining what he wants to do to her; he has more to say, to be sure, but he needs to rein himself in a bit. "But we're going slow," she says, almost regretfully, her fingers toying with the hem of his shirt again.

"Aye, we're going slow."

She begins a tentative exploration of his sides, slipping her hands under his shirt. Any efforts made to quell the heat under his skin fly out the window as Emma traces the lines and dips and scars on his back. She presses a hair harder and he feels the light drag of her nails up his spine; he uncurls, back straightening as he leans into it and he hears her soft giggles. "Bloody hell, love, that's not playing fair," he says in a rush of air.

"I'm not doing anything you weren't doing," Emma counters, retracing her steps back down his spine. "I'm going slow."

Her fingers move at a lazy pace now, likely to prove her point on how slow she's going, and Killian's toes curl as his cock hardens further. "Emma," he breathes, not caring about the whining edge to his voice.

He moves, slanting his lips against hers in a needy kiss. He swallows her surprised squeak, pulling her flush against him. He's missed the taste of her, how quick she is to push back, how eager she is to open for him. One of her hands moves, snaking up his neck to rake through his hair and grip at the nape of his neck. She must feel him, hard and pressed up against her belly, because her hips rut into his a little before she seems to remember herself.

It's not until his hand is dangerously close to slipping under the waistband of her pajamas that he pulls away. "I'm doing a terrible job of letting you sleep," Killian says.

"Screw sleep," Emma whispers and she sounds as frustrated as he feels. It's lighter out now and he can see her rolling onto her back with a dramatic scoff. Killian props himself up on his elbow, slightly worried that he's offended her somehow. Emma reaches up and rubs her forehead. "I need a minute," she mumbles.

_Ah_, he realizes, feeling less worried now and more guilty. "Apologies, love."

"No, don't. I asked for it. I just... I am really regretting slow." He traces a line down her arm and she readily takes his hand in hers, indicating the truth in her words with their mutual need to be near one another. She turns to look at him in the dim light. He squeezes her hand and she returns the gesture. "If we - if we weren't going slow," she says softly, "I would want to taste you."

Killian swallows hard, his cock springing back to life at her words. He's had far too many dreams over the last several weeks of her pretty lips wrapped around his cock, her hands gripping and fondling and leaving him utterly at her mercy. But he recognizes her hesitancy, her cautious exposure of her desires, and despite his own fierce arousal he wants to nurture that openness. He wants her to feel free to name her wants and needs at any time but especially in the bedroom. "Would you now?" he asks. "What else would you want to do?"

Emma inhales and he thinks he sees a brief flash of a smile, but it's too dark to tell. "Yeah," she says. He can hear her growing confidence. "I - I would want you on your back. And maybe I'd want your hands tied up above your head."

"Utterly at your mercy," Killian says. "Begging for release."

"I like that," she admits, rolling onto her side to face him fully. "But I like it when you're right there with me too. When we're both almost at that edge and when you're coaxing me along, whispering in my ear. You don't even have to say anything dirty, just asking me nicely, there's - I like your voice when you're like that."

Her nose brushes his and he's swept up in the memory of their last time together, the scene just as she's painted it: Emma astride him, her soft moans in his ear as she rode him and he whispered sweet, filthy nothings in her ear. "I like that too, love," he whispers.

Her lips brush his. "I like _you_," she says.

Killian kisses her softly. "I _love_ you."

"Oh, now you're one-upping me?" Emma asks, mock-annoyed.

He growls softly and grabs hold of her; she giggles as he rolls them so she's on top of him and they've gone well past treading in dangerous waters to just full on submerging within them as her legs fall on either side of him. He feels his cock pressed against her center through their thin layers. Only the hitch in her breath tells him she feels it, but before he can ask if it's okay she's kissing him again.

Hands wander and blankets slip. She shivers hard against him when he pushes her shirt up, exposing her skin to the cool air, and the movement does nothing to make his hard-on go away. There's another hitch in her breath when his hips rut up into hers and she mimics the movement, making him groan against her. "I want to taste you," Emma whispers against him. There's pure need in her voice as she speaks between kisses. "I missed you so much. I need to taste you, please."

Killian's hands skim her sides; he is lost in a fog of lust and love, and damn it all to hell he wanted to do this properly, but he missed her just as much. "I'm right here, my darling, I'm not leaving you," he says, fingers flirting with the sides of her breasts again. "You can have your fill of me, but only if I can taste you as well."

She pulls away at that and he can see her stunned expression in the near-dawn light. "What happened to slow?" Emma asks.

She doesn't sound upset, merely a bit confused. He grins, a full-on cheeky grin and cocks an eyebrow for good measure. "Oh, believe me, _a ghrá geal_, I can go slow." She gives him an exasperated look but he kisses it away: first her lips, then the tip of her nose, butting his forehead against hers lightly. "I wouldn't have suggested it if I weren't comfortable with it."

He rolls his hips up into hers and she bites her lip before nodding and climbing off of him. As much as he'd prefer to strip her himself, he privately agrees that it's probably much faster to undress themselves. He shucks his bottoms as she does the same; she leaves her shirt on, he doesn't. "It's cold," she says defensively at his raised eyebrow.

"That's entirely the point," Killian says, leering at her covered chest. Her breasts had responded quite strongly to the air conditioning last summer and he wouldn't mind a repeat performance.

She scoffs, then moves up. "Put that mouth to better use," Emma tells him before straddling his head.

His retort dies on his lips as he looks up, her sex mere inches from his lips. His mouth goes dry as Emma leans forward, her hand sliding down his torso towards the apex of his thighs. Her body follows and she lays across him; he feels her warm breath on his cock and he swallows hard in anticipation, but he still hisses out a breath when she licks the length of him. "Bloody _fuck_."

She doesn't respond, taking him into her mouth as deep as she can. Killian's eyes roll back when his cock hits the back of her throat, his toes curling as she bobs her head, her fingers wrapping around the base of his cock and pumping. She feels _good_, hot and slick - though a poor substitute for her sex - and it's almost embarrassing that he can already feel his orgasm building at the base of his spine. It takes everything in him not to rock his hips up into her, not to fuck her mouth, and instead remember that he has a task to attend to as well. He grips her hips and urges her to move back just a bit so he can taste her easily.

It's her turn to pause when he licks her front to back; he almost moans at her taste, her arousal abundant and sweet. She releases him with a pop, resting her head against his thigh as he draws lazy circles around her clit with his tongue. His hands don't stay idle, gently kneading her pert arse or slipping down to enter her dripping entrance while he continues tonguing her clit. Slowly she begins to rock back against him, her whimpers music to his ears. Killian gently pats her on the arse, reminding her that she wanted to start this; he feels her nod against his thigh, then she wraps her lips around the head of his cock again.

It's difficult to concentrate between the sweet taste of her on his tongue and her warm, wet mouth on his cock. He's lost in lust, hardly aware of anything outside of the sounds she makes as he devours her. He pulls his fingers out of her and replaces them with his tongue and she moans around his cock, the vibrations driving him crazy with need for her.

God in heaven, he wants to be buried in her to the hilt, alternately fucking her into the mattress and making love to her.

He redoubles his efforts, moving his fingers to her clit as he fucks her with his tongue. He feels her tense under his hand as he switches again, sucking and licking her clit, his fingers sliding in and curling to seek the spot that made her see stars. She leans into his movements, fucking herself on his mouth and hand and then he feels her walls clench around him. Her cries are muffled by his cock until she lifts her head, gasping as she rides his face through her orgasm. He brings her down gently, his fingers slowing and finally slipping out as he kisses her core. "Beautiful," he murmurs.

Emma's head is on his thigh again, he can feel her breathing hard. "Damn," she mutters, chuckling weakly. "I can't believe I forgot how good you are at that."

"I'd be insulted, love, if -" But he doesn't get a chance to explain his counterpoint because she's gripping his cock and guiding it back to her welcoming mouth. "Buggering _hells._"

She's keen, sucking him just the way he likes, her tongue circling the sensitive tip and laving at a particular spot just under the head. His hands grip her hips, squeezing her arse as Emma rocks her hips against his chest. "Oh fuck. _Oh_, Emma, fucking hell - _please_," Killian grits out, fingers digging into her soft skin.

She comes up for air, her hand gently stroking his rigid flesh. "Please what?" she asks and he sees her looking coyly over her shoulder at him.

He's gone, completely and utterly gone for this woman. She's a goddess, a sinful siren splayed out on top of him, teasing him and fucking him with every tool in her arsenal. He's no longer submerged in dangerous waters - he's drowning in them and he doesn't care a damn about it. "Please let me fuck you," Killian says, locking eyes with her.

Emma's eyes widen and her hand freezes. "What?" She rolls off of him with care and he instantly misses her warmth and the comfortable weight of her body. She sits cross-legged, dragging the blankets up over her legs and his hips. "Killian, I didn't mean to push you -"

He sits up, covering her wringing hands with one of his. "Emma. Honesty, remember?" She nods and some of the guilt leaves her face. "Honestly, I want you. I have always wanted you. Honestly, you haven't pushed me. And honestly, I want to rut you into the blasted mattress until we both black out from exhaustion."

She grins briefly before hiding it in a smaller smile. "That sounds like a challenge."

Killian drags her down with him, pulling her shirt off and palming one of her breasts. "I love a challenge," he tells her. "We'll start slow, aye?"

She nods, arching into his touch as he rubs his thumb over her nipple. Emma pulls him closer, kissing him as she draws her leg up and over his hip. Killian gasps against her when his cock nudges her slick core. "Last chance to back out," she whispers, reaching between them to line him up with her entrance.

He loves her all the more for making sure this is something they both want, but he's almost shaking with need for her. "Not on your life, love."

Killian pushes in, a sound caught between a whimper and a groan escaping him as her warm channel grips him tight. Her grip in his hair tightens and she kisses him harder as he pulls out just a bit and then sinks in as far as he can. They stay that way for a long moment, just holding each other, just staying in this moment of being one again. His hand grazes her hip and she gingerly cards her fingers through his hair. "I love you," Emma tells him quietly.

He shudders, her declaration while he's firmly seated inside of her making his heart light and renewing his desire to make love to her as reverently as she deserves. He moves slowly, hitching her leg higher over his hip and silently urging her to move with him. They kiss, mouths gently sliding over each over as he nudges her towards another peak; as desperate for release as he was, he needs her with him.

Killian pulls her tight against him, burying his face in her shoulder. "So bloody hot," he mumbles, groaning when she reaches down and grabs his arse for leverage as she moves. "You're so warm, always so wet for me, darling. You're stunning, so beautiful. How are you real? Always fit so perfectly around me, like we were made for each other. Do you feel that, _a ghrá geal_? Do you feel how I was made to fit you? Please, tell me sweetling, tell me you feel this too."

He feels her nod, her hands roaming and squeezing, her nails trailing nonsense patterns on his back. "I feel it," she whispers. "I feel you - I feel _full_." She gasps when he thrusts hard into her. "You always make me feel so good, you always take care of me. I feel -"

She takes a shuddering breath, like she's on the precipice and scared of falling. He kisses her neck. "Fall, my love, I'll catch you. I'll always catch you."

She pulls back, cradling his face between her hands. "I feel complete."

Killian surges forward, pouring all the love in his overly full heart into this one kiss. It's more than he could ever ask for, dare to hope for, pray to possibly be his. _You complete me._

"Killian."

He doesn't want to open his eyes, just wants to feel her moving with him, around him. But Emma's insistent, tickling his side to get his attention. "I love you. And I know we said we'd go slow," she says, gently tracing his jaw. "But I really, really would like you to go fast now."

He grins, rolling them onto her back. He had promised to fuck her into the mattress, after all, and he's only too happy to oblige her. He grips her hands, pinning them above her head as he rolls his hips into her once, then urges her to wrap her legs around him. She arches into him, putting her breasts at the perfect angle for him to suck while he drives into her _fast_, like she wants, and _hard_, like she likes. Nonsense spills from her lips, her fingers digging into his and her heels digging into his arse as his cock sinks into her welcoming body again and again until she stiffens in his arms, a wordless cry on her lips as she comes around him. He falls with her, her rippling walls squeezing every drop of pleasure out of him and bathed in his release.

The skin between them is hot and slick with sweat, both of them breathing hard as they come down from their high. Killian feebly kicks at the blankets, welcoming the cool air as they slip away from his body. Emma's legs slowly unwind from around him and her hands lose their grip on his as she relaxes. He turns his head a little, kissing her neck first, then her cheek, and finally her lips, murmuring love and praise against her skin as he feels both his and her hearts slow to normal again.

She's half-asleep when he slips out of her, mumbling incoherently under her breath. He disappears downstairs briefly for a washcloth, coming back up to clean himself and clean up his release dripping slowly out of her body. It's only now that he realizes that they didn't use protection. _Too late for that now_, he thinks guiltily, gently washing her and vowing to be more cautious next time.

It's far, far too soon to imagine how lovely she would be, her face aglow with happiness and her belly swollen with his child.

Emma curls into him when he climbs back into bed. The sun's up and over the horizon now, but Killian's determined to do something he hasn't done in nearly two decades, with a new upshot that his thirteen-year old self only daydreamed about.

He's going to sleep in, holding the woman he loves.

* * *

He feels as if he's only just closed his eyes when he wakes again to Emma drawing patterns on his chest with her finger, pressing kisses against his shoulder. "Haven't I worn you out yet, love?" Killian rumbles, rolling over to pin her to the bed again, her giggles music to his ears.

Instead of pushing him off, she just wraps her arms around him; he readjusts slightly so he's not quite crushing her, enjoying the feeling of skin on skin. "Quick nap, then back at it?" she asks, her tone hopeful.

Killian groans, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "Woman, you'll be the death of me."

"_La petite mort_," Emma says and he lifts himself up enough to raise an eyebrow at her. "What?" she asks defensively. "I read things!"

He just shakes his head, chuckling. Of all the things in the world to retain, she chooses the French for orgasm. "_Táim i ngrá leat, a ghrá geal_."

It's her turn to raise an eyebrow and he kisses her softly. "What does that mean?" she asks when they part.

"It means that I am in love with you," Killian tells her.

She gives him a knowing smile and he feels the tips of his ears burn as he suddenly remembers the last time she'd asked him to translate his language for her. "And the other thing?" she asks softly.

He takes a breath, then rests his forehead against hers. "That one means that you're my bright love, my sweetheart, my beloved. My soulmate."

This time, when she takes him into her body, she's astride him. The blankets pool around his knees and he knows she's cold from the way her breasts bounce with taut peaks as she moves above him. Her hands are pressed against his thighs for balance, her back arching in the most pleasing way and leaving all of her open to watch. He's torn between watching her chest heave and his cock disappearing inside her, but mostly he's just in awe that this stunning woman wants him, loves him, is currently gasping his name to the heavens as she comes around him.

He takes her on her knees next, driving into her again and again as her hands fist in the sheets. He sweeps her lovely hair over her shoulder, peppering her back with kisses before hauling her up onto his lap. Her hand fists in his hair next, her head falling back on his shoulder as he sucks marks into her neck and molds her supple breasts in his hands. "Mine," he growls in her ear, biting and sucking at the lobe. The last two rounds had been out of love, out of passion, out of desire, but this - this is lust, this is need, pure and simple carnal pleasure. "My Swan, only I make you feel this way, make you scream my name, make you beg."

"Yours," she gasps, choking out a cry when he drives up hard into her sex. "Only yours, Killian, only -" She cuts off with another cry as he propels them forward, pressing her onto her stomach and rutting hard into her.

He reaches under her, circling her clit with his fingers to draw her to her peak, relishing her screams as she flies over it and drags him down with her. He pulls out quickly, spending himself across her back and her arse with only a twinge of regret that he can't feel her spasming around his cock.

She mumbles something he can't hear as he reaches for the cold, still-damp washcloth to mop up his mess. "Come again, sweetheart?" Killian asks. She giggles at that and belatedly he realizes his phrasing. He blames post-coital bliss for that slip of the tongue. "Give me time to recuperate in that regard."

Emma props herself up on her elbows with a sigh. "Yeah, I need a few minutes too," she admits. "But I said that I'm on birth control. I knew what I was doing the first time."

"Emma…"

She looks over her shoulder at him, her smile warm and comforting against his worry. "It's okay. I appreciate the caution." She gets up onto her knees, wincing slightly - and he only feels slightly guilty for the fact that he'd been the cause, not in the least for the action that made her ache - and kisses him quick and dirty before whispering in his ear, "Next time I want to feel you come inside me."

Killian groans, his cock already feebly twitching back to life.

They're both more than happy, however, just to lay together under the covers again. Killian holds her close, his nose in her hair and her fingers splayed on his chest, occasionally trading soft kisses. They talk quietly about everything and nothing in particular; she tells him more about her upcoming trip to New York, he tells her about his prospects for a few upcoming races. They talk about what to eat later and come to no decisions; they bicker about how many blankets to have on and who's taking more than their fair share; they make one another laugh and just revel in this quiet moment of happiness until they both doze off again.

It's a perfectly lovely way to spend a snowy January morning.

It's well after noon - Emma turns on her phone the next time they wake up to check - when they finally decide to give in to their growling stomachs. Emma swipes his shirt and shimmies into only a pair of panties, leaving her long and glorious legs free for his eyes to ogle. He almost doesn't bother with the pajama pants, not giving a damn about modesty, but the chill has gotten to him enough to reluctantly slip them on. Killian follows her down to the kitchen, raking his hand through the hair he knows is sticking up at all angles in a misguided attempt to tame it. "What do you want to eat?" Emma asks, glancing over her shoulder as they walk into the kitchen.

He grins wolfishly. "What I want isn't on the menu, Swan."

She rolls her eyes. "What you want needs some food in her stomach first, because someone decided we should be up half the night burning calories."

"Aye, love, it wasn't me who initiated. I believe the lady is the one who wanted a first taste."

He glances at her, noting with amusement that she seemed to be biting her lip to keep from grinning. "Still. Food first, then maybe I'll let you have dessert."

They eventually decide on pancakes, something simple but filling. Killian starts on the batter while Emma wanders around the kitchen, gathering a skillet and greasing it with ease and leaving it on the stove to warm, setting the table for two, all the while humming some tune he's not familiar with under her breath.

It's a lovely sight, Emma with sex hair in naught but a shirt and underwear. Emma with love bites along her neck and peeking out from under her shirt collar, red streaks from his beard scratching on the backs of her thighs. Emma happy and humming through their 'breakfast' preparations.

He wants to see her like this every day for the rest of his life.

She comes up behind him as he starts making their breakfast, arms wrapping around his stomach and her lips pressed between his shoulder blades. "Do you regret it?" she asks quietly.

"Regret what, darling?"

"Last night," she says, sounding guilty. "I still feel like maybe I pushed you into it."

He needs one of his hands to use the spatula, but he covers her clasped hands with his free one. "Emma, don't do that to yourself. I'm a grown man who went into this with my eyes open. I could never regret the night we shared, even though we'd had good intentions." He chuckles a little and she makes an inquiring noise against his skin before kissing his spine. "Though, in the spirit of honesty, I am surprised we lasted as long as we did. I blame the exhaustion."

Killian hears her gasp and he can tell she's teasing him. "So you're saying I'm insatiable."

He laughs. "May I never intend it as a complaint, my love. I am ever your willing servant for any insatiable needs you may harbor."

She squeezes him around the middle and she mutters something he doesn't quite catch, but she doesn't let go and he's content to flip pancakes while she holds on to him. When they have a serviceable stack, he turns off the stove and turns in her embrace, tilting her chin up to kiss her. "I love you," he tells her when they part.

"Love you too," she says, smiling as she rests her forehead against his.

He has half a mind to haul her up onto the kitchen counter and have his way with her the way he'd fantasized about last spring, but they're brought out of their reverie by the sound of the back door opening. Emma jerks her head back, looking at him in bewilderment before they hear a child yelling, "AUNT EMMA!"

Emma looks over towards the mud room as they hear David say, "Indoor voice, Leo, we don't -"

But they don't get to hear what 'we don't', because Leo and David round the corner and David stops in his tracks. Mary Margaret peeks around the door frame to see what the holdup is as Leo - still wearing his snowy boots and coat - launches himself across the kitchen at Emma's legs. "Aunt Emma, did you see all the snow outside? And why isn't the Christmas tree all lighted up? And why is Uncle 'Ian here?"

Emma untangles herself from Killian and he wonders if she's aware that her face is flushed quite red. "Hi, kiddo," she says, carefully crouching down to Leo's level and hugging him. "I did see all the snow outside, I was out in it most of yesterday with the plow. How about you do me a huge favor and go put your coat and boots away, then you can turn on the Christmas tree, okay?"

Leo nods and runs back to the mud room as Emma stands. Killian's amused to note that David's looking everywhere except at the two of them and Mary Margaret seems torn between embarrassment and amusement. "Leo, after you turn on the tree I want you to take your new toys up to your room. You can show Aunt Emma later."

"Okay."

The Nolans busy themselves with their winter gear in the other room for a moment. "This isn't how I pictured today going," Emma whispers, still red-faced.

Killian shrugs, putting his arms around her. He supposes he should feel a bit more shame for being caught unawares and ready to fuck her on the counter, but he can't be bothered to give a damn. Emma loves him and he loves her, and anyone else's opinion doesn't matter. "They had to find out eventually, love."

"When we're half-naked in the kitchen?!"

Leo goes sprinting out of the mud room with a cumbersome-looking bag, cutting off his retort. David emerges next, his cheeks painted with bright red spots. "Emma, do you mind, ah, putting on pants?" he asks, his gaze somewhere off to the left of them.

Killian grins, unable to resist the next words that come spilling out, "Here, love, you can take mine."

"On second thought, it's fine," David grits out, and they hear Mary Margaret giggle behind him.

"Honey, move," she says, nudging him aside so she can come in. "So, this is… unexpected."

"Aye, in more ways than one," Killian says.

"What are you doing back so soon?" Emma asks. "I thought you said you wouldn't be able to make it back."

David glances at her, then away again before saying, "Boston wasn't hit so bad, they had the roads cleared out quick. Leo wanted to see the foal and wouldn't stop talking about it, and honestly, the roads weren't so bad the closer we got back to Storybrooke. They did a good job clearing things out."

Mary Margaret's still watching Killian and Emma with a look that reminds him of a cat that got the canary. Killian makes a quick decision, kissing the side of Emma's head before letting her go. "Back in a mo', love."

He slips behind the Nolans, who move deeper into the kitchen, no doubt to question Emma further about what they intruded on before. While he's not very concerned about his own modesty, he does mind if Emma's uncomfortable, so he quickly takes his things out of the dryer and throws them on. He fishes his phone out of his coat again, turning it on while he walks back into the kitchen and tosses the pajama pants at Emma. "Here, love."

She quickly slips them on as a voicemail comes in from Will. Killian quietly excuses himself to the living room, quietly praying that there's no trouble as he selects it and listens.

"_Oi, I know you're busy celebrating something and I don' need details, mate, I can guess what it is, congratulations. But I thought I should let you know that you'll have a housemate again, Regina called and said she finally secured Belle's bail and she'll be released this afternoon. There's some legal nonsense as to why it took this bloody long, but Regina says she's hale and hearty and much looking forward to a real bed again. Never say I ain't done nothin' for you, you said to warn you next time I turn your house into a haven. And we fed your bloody cats._"

Though he rolls his eyes at the last bit, Killian goes back into the kitchen grinning. Emma and David are seated at the table, while Mary Margaret seems unable to sit still, picking up after the interrupted breakfast cooking. "I have excellent news," he says, causing the Nolans and Emma to look up at him. "Belle's out of prison, she's coming back to the Horn tonight."

Mary Margaret gasps, her hands flying up to her mouth, as Emma grins and David nods approvingly. "It's about time," he says. "Gold had no reason to drag her down with him."

"It's probably not over, not by a long shot, but at least she'll be home where she belongs," Mary Margaret says, smoothing the front of her shirt down over her rather prominent baby bump. "Not that the Horn is _home_, but -"

But Killian's shaking his head. "No, it's her home as long as she chooses to make it so. I've no qualms about her staying as long as she needs to."

Mary Margaret not-so-subtly glances between him and Emma. "Not even with the two of you and… whatever this is?"

Emma rolls her eyes. "Mary Margaret."

"I'm just saying!"

"I'm not moving in with him right away!"

His heart skips a beat at that, and Emma seems to realize what she said because there's a pink hue on her cheeks again. She chooses not to comment on it, though, and Killian files that happy thought away for a later discussion. Instead, he says, "Belle is well aware that she's my flatmate. And I have a feeling she'll be more than thrilled to decamp elsewhere for the night should Emma choose to stay over."

Emma scowls. "I'm not kicking anyone out of anywhere just to spent the night with my boyfriend."

"Oh, I'm sure Will Scarlet might be more than happy to put her up," Killian says innocently, and Emma futilely tries to kick him; happily, he's just a bit out of reach.

"Not until the divorce goes through," David comments.

"Aye, probably not."

There's a moment of silence as they all fully digest the news and Killian glances longingly at the stack of pancakes sitting forgotten on their plate on the counter. They'll likely have to be reheated. Mary Margaret glances between Emma and Killian again, then clears her throat. "So," she says lightly. "Boyfriend."

Emma gives her sister-in-law a look, an exasperated one that Killian's well acquainted with. "We're not making this a big deal."

"But you're dating again."

Killian steps up behind Emma, putting his hands on her shoulders and squeezing them reassuringly. They hadn't discussed what they would tell their family, how to explain and even if they would explain; after all, it's only their business of the hows and whys, the Nolans don't need all of the details. He expects David wouldn't want the details anyway, though Mary Margaret might have questions.

But Emma just reaches up, covering one of his hands with hers and squeezing it. She glances up at him and he looks at her, both of them sharing a smile. He doesn't care how they label it this time, or even if they do. She's his girlfriend, his beloved, his soulmate. Titles don't matter: she's his and he's hers. Killian has fragile hopes for something more someday, but for now he's content to build the solid foundation upon which to build that something more with her. Emma looks back at her family, her hand still on his. "Yeah," she says, with a happy sigh as she leans her head back against his stomach. "We're together again." He turns his hand over and she grips it tight.

She'd once asked him not to leave, that first afternoon they'd given in to their attraction towards one another. She'd been fighting the urge to hop back into bed with him, pulling away even as he'd seen in her face that she'd wanted nothing more than to stay. But she'd still asked him not to leave.

Killian's worked for more shedrows in three years than he has in the last fifteen. He's spent years wandering, looking for somewhere to put down roots, somewhere to finally call home and achieve his dream of the Crown.

Emma looks back up at him, that soft smile still on her face.

Emma and Killian.

Aye, he's found somewhere to put down roots, sink them deep and spread them out. A little farm in the middle of nowhere, Maine, with a good crew and friends, but it's only complete with Emma at his side.

Emma had asked him not to leave, and Killian never intends to leave her again.

* * *

**Thank you very much for reading. Reviews are always appreciated. The epilogue should be up soon!**


	28. Epilogue: May 13, 2017

**Content caution: some smuttiness.**

* * *

Normally, Emma's able to sleep through Killian's alarm. She's lived here, officially, for more than a year now, so she's very used to her boyfriend waking up at the crack of dawn to go play with his horses. Normally she doesn't hear him slap the alarm off, though sometimes she does wake up a little when he slips his arm around her and presses a kiss to her usually bare shoulder. Today, however, she's already awake when all of that happens, having not slept well at all last night. "_Maidin mhaith, a ghrá geal_," he says softly, his voice gravelly from sleep.

She smiles, despite being annoyed at how little she slept. She loves how he sounds first thing in the morning, rare as it is that she gets to hear it. His voice sounds so rough, his accent thicker, and it sends tingles down her spine every time. "That one means 'good morning'," she mumbles, leaning back into him.

"I'm impressed," Killian says, kissing her cheek. "Both at the translation and that you're awake. Didn't I wear you out last night?"

"Couldn't sleep," she admits, even though her eyelids feel like lead weights. He'd done a _very_ thorough job at trying to exhaust her, but her nerves proved to be made of some seriously strong stuff. "Too excited. And nervous."

"Oh, well we can't have that," Killian tells her, and she giggles as he rolls her onto her back. She's a little sore, but she's more than happy to try this again. "We need you looking your best for photos later."

His eyes are heavy-lidded, and his hair is sticking up at all angles from the sex last night and the way he tends to sleep with his head half under the pillow. She returns his sleepy grin and then sighs happily as he half covers her with his body, pressing their lips together in a needy kiss. His hands being to roam _everywhere_ and she arches into his touch; God, she doesn't know how he manages to make every time feel like the first. His lips move to her neck, careful for once not to leave marks where people could see; the gentle scratch of his beard against her skin would fade much faster than a hickey. He bites gently on her collarbones, kissing every freckle he can reach, and finally buries his face between her breasts.

It tickles when he does this, both his scruffy cheeks against the sides of her breasts and the gentle sweep of his slightly too long hair on her skin. Emma takes great pleasure in further wrecking his hair, the dark strands easily slipping through her fingers as he covers one breast with his mouth and kneads the other in his hand. Soft moans escape her as Killian circles a nipple with his tongue, sucking on it until it's firm between his teeth. He repeats the actions on her other breast, then kisses his way down her stomach. Emma sighs again with content as he freely sucks marks into her skin, biting her gently before releasing her and moving on. "Making up for something?" she murmurs, running her fingers through his hair again as he teases a ticklish spot with his tongue.

"I have a sneaking suspicion," Killian murmurs against her belly button, sliding down and nipping the little pouch of her belly for emphasis, "that marking you where God and everyone can witness would land me in very hot water." He pauses again, this time circling her belly button with his tongue. "And as I very much desire to remain in my lady's good graces, I'm behaving myself."

Emma hums, toying with one particularly wayward strand of hair as he moves further south. "If you really wanted to stay in my good graces, you wouldn't be taking your sweet-ass time right now -"

Her words are swallowed by a gasp as he hits his mark, his tongue warm and wet on her core. He traces her slit, dipping in further to tease her clit before parting her with his fingers and licking all of her sex with the flat of his tongue. Killian presses her hip down against the bed with his free hand, pausing long enough to tell her, "Lie still, love."

She does her best, trying not to ride his face as he lazily traces circle after circle after circle around her clit. She bites her lip, a whimper stuck in her throat as he teases her, dipping lower and lower but never tonguing her entrance. She can feel how wet she is, how desperate she is for him to fill her somehow; surely he can taste or smell her desire. "Killian," she whispers, pleading.

He hums in response, dipping just a bit lower and flicking at her entrance with the tip of his tongue, but it's still enough for her to clench fruitlessly after he pulls away, desperate to be filled. Emma's head thrashes in frustration - if he wants to put her to sleep, he's doing an awful job. She's wired and just wants him to forget both of their duties for the day and fuck her until neither of them can move. "Killian, _please_," Emma begs.

"There's the magic word," he teases.

If he wants her to remain still, he'll just have to get used to disappointment: Emma's moans fill the room as she ruts her hips up to meet his eager tongue. His hand leaves her hip, reaching up to knead her breasts in turn, thumb rubbing tight circles around her nipples. She wants to cry when his fingers slip inside her, filling her at last, but she settles for shamelessly thrusting up against him and pleading for more.

Killian's relentless, though, teasing her to the edge three times. She _knows_ this turns him on - both because he insists on eating her out at least once every time they have sex, and from the way he's grinding his hips down against the bed - but, in her opinion, he's just being _evil_ now. Each time she thinks he's finally going to let her come, he pulls away or slows down, and no amount of snarling or hair pulling or pushing his head back to her core changes his mind. The fourth time he builds her up, it's slow and patient; it's not until she's covered in a thin sheen of sweat and whining deep in her throat - it _hurts_ to be this turned on, dammit - that he presses down hard with his tongue and curls his fingers up inside her and she's finally, _finally_ coming. His name is a prayer on her lips as she bucks into his mouth and hand and he ever so gently brings her down from that high.

Emma falls back against her pillow, chest heaving. She wants more, craves it really, but she feels Killian pulling away and tucking her in. She smiles as he kisses her, tasting herself on his lips. "Can't I at least return the favor before you go?" she asks, punctuating it with a yawn. She knows he's probably sporting an erection and she'd much rather fall asleep with the taste of him on her lips.

Killian chuckles. "Sweetling, you're half-asleep already. I promise I'll let you make it up to me later. I'm sure we'll have plenty to celebrate tonight."

She nods as he brushes her hair back and kisses her forehead. He's right - about the half-asleep thing, anyway. She's still worried about everything else, but she might be able to sleep until her alarm at least. "Give her a big hug and a kiss from me and tell her good luck," Emma mumbles, rolling over and hugging her pillow.

She hears Killian chuckle again even as she finally starts to drift off to sleep. "Will do, sweetheart."

"Wait." She wrestles one arm free from the blanket cocoon he's wrapped her in and reaches for him just as he moves away. He pauses, taking her hand in his. "I love you," she says, cracking one eye open just in time to see his smile.

He kisses her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers. "I love you too," he says softly. "I'll see you later."

The last thing she hears before falling asleep is Killian rustling around in the dresser.

* * *

A few hours later, Emma's slowly coaxing Arthur to life - it's still a stubborn old controller, getting worse every year. She's pretty sure it might be time to make the track pony up for new equipment, particularly since most places are broadcasting in HD and they're still in standard; she just has yet to figure out the right argument to make it actually happen. As it runs through the startup mechanisms, Emma sits back with her travel mug. Though they'd stopped their morning coffee meetups after moving in together, Killian does his part anyway by making sure her favorite blend is ready for her by the time she gets downstairs, long after he's left for work for the day.

She glances around the room, making sure she's turned on all of the equipment, before her gaze lands on Elsa's box of tea, and there's a pang in her heart as she remembers that the days she sees that box are limited.

The sound of heels clicking on the tiles brings Emma back from the edge of another gloomy slump. She looks up in time to see Ruby stride in, holding her own mug of coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. "Morning," Emma says.

"Nervous?" Ruby asks, sitting in her chair.

Emma winces and takes a sip of her coffee. "Trying not to think about it, really. By the way, did you happen to stop and grab the mail?"

Ruby smiles, just a little bit wistfully, then reaches into her big red purse and pulling out a handful of envelopes. "Trying not to think about a lot of things, I take it?"

Emma doesn't respond as she flicks through the small stack. There's a few unimportant things - a typed up copy of the monthly management meeting notes, things like that - but most of them are hand-addressed to Storybrooke Downs, ℅ Emma Swan: Broadcasting, and thick with resumes and cover letters. There aren't too many audio technicians out of work in the area, but Emma's got connections who know plenty of techs in need of a six-month gig. She picks those out of the pile and adds them to the ever-growing in-tray full of similar envelopes. "I'm really going to have to start looking at those soon," she says sadly.

Ruby's nails clack against her keyboard as she works. "When's the cutoff?"

"As long as they're postmarked by Monday, I'll accept them."

"You know Elsa will help you vet everyone, right?" Ruby asks, glancing at her.

Emma takes another sip of coffee, nodding. "It doesn't make the fact that she's leaving us sit any easier."

With Anna expecting her first child with Kristoff, it makes sense that they're finally going to move in together. There had been some push for it to happen back in the fall, but with Kristoff's schedule and both of the Adgarssen sisters in no shape to be packing up the house or holding a garage sale and hauling the rest of it four hours south, they put it off until after the baby's due date. It was some relief to Elsa, at any rate, giving her plenty of time to start looking for new doctors in the Boston area and decide if she was comfortable with them or not.

Ruby shares a sympathetic smile. "I know," she says, and Emma's reminded that even though she's been working with them for three years, Elsa's worked with Ruby for even longer. "I'm gonna miss her driving me crazy with all of her new tea discoveries and the weird smells."

"I heard that," Elsa says, walking into the room slowly. It's a glasses day and she looks tired, but the lack of her cane is a good sign. "I'll miss you terrorizing me into going out and doing something scandalous on our days off, too, Ruby."

Emma smiles as her friends toss more barbs at each other. She's sad to be losing two excellent coworkers; even though Anna works in a different area, she's good at her job, and Killian always speaks highly of her. It'll be hard to find someone to fill her shoes and keep the peace in the locker rooms. Emma's also nervous: she hasn't had to hire anyone in a long time, not since she worked in New York, and she doesn't like the process or not knowing if the new hire will gel with their well-oiled machine.

But more than the stressful prospects of new faces and challenges ahead, Emma's devastated to be losing two of her closest friends. She knows Boston's not that far away, not really, but it's not the same as having them twenty minutes away. And with the new baby on top of it, Emma knows that it'll fall on her to make the trip if she wants to see them.

Lord knows that some nights after Ruth was born Emma didn't even have the energy to make the trip over to Killian's to get a peaceful night's sleep.

Victor and Jefferson come in then, and Emma gets them and the guys in the towers all keyed in and balanced. The phone rings and Ruby chats with Billy about the scratches and changes. Leroy comes in to chat with Victor without three glass walls separating them; Emma keeps an ear out for any fights brewing. Elsa's newest tea blend smells atrocious even though she swears it tastes divine - Ruby wonders aloud if Elsa's just burned her tastebuds off after too many scalding cups of tea.

Elsa just makes a face at her.

Emma smiles, pulling the day's racing form towards her and flipping through it. Yes, things will be changing soon, but she's going to try not to feel too gloomy about it. She'll enjoy the little moments of familiarity while they last.

* * *

It's a heady Saturday afternoon; the sun is shining and hope is so thick in the air that Emma could taste it. There's a good crowd on the apron today, she's had the guys out in the towers do a lot of crowd shots during their downtime and between the talent talking. A beautiful Saturday the week after the Derby means that people are still riding on that high, and everyone wants to milk that feeling for what it's worth.

Even in the control room, with all it's air conditioning, it's a little humid. Emma spends half the time worrying about her equipment and the other half about her hair. She's glad she wore it up for later, less of a chance for frizz. She's pretty sure her curls are fading fast anyway, but Elsa and Ruby keep telling her she looks fine and she needs to stop redirecting her nerves.

She hates when they're right, but at this point she really should be used to it.

"And full cycle," Emma says, her eyes trained on Jefferson's camera feed, following the winning colt out onto the track. The live feed switches to the odds and Emma moves almost automatically to reset the switcher. "Okay, good job. We do it again in 21 minutes," she says before she removes her headset.

"_We'll_ do it again in 21, _you_ get that tight little ass down to the winner's circle," Ruby corrects.

Emma feels the blood drain from her face, grabbing her racing form. She flips the page and glances at the monitors, confirming the race. "Oh fuck me," she whispers.

Elsa reaches over and gives her a little shove. "Go! We've got this."

The door to the camera bay opens and Victor pops his head out. "We'll get your good side when she wins!" he says, grinning.

"Oh, bloody hell you're going to jinx it," Emma says, feeling wobbly in her heels as she gets to her feet. She's definitely not dressed for the stables later, not in her favorite sleeveless red dress or these heels, but she's got a change of clothes in a duffel bag in the back corner of the room.

"And you've been living with Killian too long," Elsa says, scooting her chair over so she can man both the audio and the switcher. "You're starting to sound like him. Now go!"

Emma smiles nervously at her friends, then heads down the hall. She pops into the bathroom to check her hair and make sure her clothes are straight and free of creases, swiping a pinky finger under her eyes for any stray makeup. She's never been on the rail as an official owner before and it's _nerve wracking_. She's seen hundreds, if not thousands, of owners on the rail or pictured up in the clubhouses over the years and all of them had looked cool as cucumbers. Granted, very few of them had been outright smiling - the genuine kind, not the social ones that never reached their eyes or just looked entirely too forced - but none of them ever looked like they were going to throw up.

Emma leans in closer, making sure she's not actually green around the gills. The last thing she needs is for some railbird reporter getting a photo of the newest owner at the Downs hurling all over someone's shoes.

And maybe that's the catch. Maybe she's never seen any first-timers on the rail or in the clubhouses before, or maybe if she had seen them, they'd been like Neal: long-time family business, first-time owner. Either way, they were still old hands at it. But it doesn't explain Emma - who has spent fifteen years around horses and some of the most famous racetracks in the country - who still feels like she's about to hurl.

_Maybe it's just something in the blood_, she thinks grimly, stepping out of the bathroom and stopping at the water fountain. _Some kind of old-money thing you're born into that I didn't get. Or maybe they just drink _a lot _of that expensive liquor they serve at the clubhouse bar._

She's acutely aware of every minute that passes as she heads downstairs; she tries to turn her director brain off, tries to stop thinking about what the girls are doing upstairs or if Victor and Leroy are getting into it again. Honestly, the last thing she needs is to deal with the paperwork from those two insulting each other.

Emma's startled when someone passes her in the hall and wishes her luck. Bewildered - and a little surprised that she hadn't seen them until they spoke - she only just manages to thank them before they disappear around the corner.

It's very odd to be wished luck for something she has very little to do with.

Emma slips on a pair of sunglasses as she steps out onto the apron; she sees her family by the warm-up circle, all of them gathered around to watch the horses in their warm-up walks. She notes that two people are missing from the group, but that's to be expected. Killian's where he's supposed to be, leaning against the paddock stall wall and chatting with another trainer. He'll come to her when it's time. Henry's also missing, but he's busy doing his new job as an official outrider - even if he can only work Saturdays until he graduates at the end of the month.

Mary Margaret smiles reassuringly as Emma comes up to them. She's got Ruth on her hip; Ruth is a few months past two now, with chubby cheeks, dimples, and thick black hair like her mother. "Nervous?" Mary Margaret asks.

"Out of my mind," Emma responds, holding her arms out. "Gimme, I need snuggles with my favorite niece."

"Auntie Em!" Ruth babbles happily, reaching for her. Emma grimaces as she takes her; Leo had put two and two together after his millionth _Wizard of Oz_ viewing, and though he'd only teased her with it once, the new name had stuck once Ruth latched onto it.

"Sure it's not too late to talk you out of that one, kid?" Emma asks. Ruth just smiles happily, throwing her arms around Emma's neck.

David comes up, slipping his arm around Emma's shoulders and kissing the side of her head. "Nervous?" he asks.

"Your wife just asked me the same question. Yes."

Regina, standing behind Mary Margaret with her family, overhears. "You learn to hide it," she comments, cradling the back of Hunter's hatted head as she sleeps in her papoose.

Emma smiles, watching as Robin stands protectively nearby; Hunter's not even three months old yet, probably too young for the noise of the track, but as Regina turns to say something to her husband Emma can see earmuffs peeking out from under the sunhat. Of course Regina's thought of everything. "Just tell me I don't look like I'm about to throw up everywhere, that's about the only thing I want to hide right now," Emma says, shifting Ruth's weight on her hip.

Regina turns back to her; though she's also wearing sunglasses, Emma can feel Regina's scrutinizing gaze on her for a long moment. "You'll pass," she says finally. "Though there's a trash can about five feet to your left in case things take a drastic turn."

"Thanks," Emma says dryly, though part of her is relieved.

A couple of outriders pass them on the track on their way back to the shelter and out of the sun; among them is Henry, and he lifts his hand in a brief wave before turning and listening to something the woman riding next to him is saying. "I can't believe he's graduating already," Emma tells Regina quietly.

"I'm still in denial myself," Regina admits, and her hand shifts up to rest on Hunter's back. "But he got his acceptance letter yesterday, so I suppose it's time to face the music."

Emma grins, glancing at Regina over Ruth's head. "He got in?"

There's been a lot of negotiation in the Hood-Mills household over the last few years concerning Henry's college choices. Neither Regina nor Robin were at all concerned about his career choices - he's spent almost every weekend working with Dr. Lucas and never had a bad word to say about the experience. But there were concerns: first it was his math and science grades, and then, after Regina's IVF took, the concern shifted to out-of-state tuition costs.

Regina nods to Emma's question. "We're all very proud of him."

"Now the only question is how long he'll stick it out before putting in for transfer," Robin comments. "He's got it in his head that it'll be simpler to advance to the graduate programs if he's already enrolled at Ohio State or Cornell - which, he's not entirely incorrect, but he'll get the sort of attention he needs at Bowdoin, particularly for biology. Not that I'm biased or anything," he adds, grinning.

Emma grins in return; she knows Robin is being considered for the department chair. In Henry's defense, though, Emma's very proud of how hard he's has been working. He's really buckled down on his schoolwork, even signing up for AP-level science classes the last two years. He's been spending less time on the farm, only one or two nights a week, and even then he tends to help out for only an hour or two before heading into the kitchen for homework. Emma or Killian are usually happy to feed him while he works; sometimes Emma makes an attempt to help, but since she opted out of more math classes after the required courses were done, the trig and calculus books have only given her a headache.

But she understands Robin and Regina's worries. If nothing else, Henry having a stable life at home - new baby sister aside - to balance out the adjustment to college would benefit him. Until the last six months or so, they've been very strict about how much time Henry spends at the Horn and by the time they relaxed those rules, he'd had his nose in his schoolbooks too often to fall back into bad habits.

Another big change, like going away to college and suddenly being treated as an adult, might set him back.

"Well, let's get him through freshman year before we worry about where he goes next," Emma says, hefting Ruth up again.

She feels Regina's eyes on her again and Emma glances over, half-expecting some kind of rebuke for including herself in the equation. But Regina surprises her by nodding. "As much as I hate to admit it, I agree."

Emma grins as Robin puts his arm around Regina. "I think I may feel an unseasonable chill, my love," he comments idly, earning an elbow in the side from his wife.

Leo and Roland race by, ducking and weaving around the adults in the area without a care in the world as they continue whatever game they're playing. Ruth whines a little about not being able to play with her brother, but Emma just shushes her soothingly and rubs her back. David lightly tugs at one of her pigtails. "Daddy!" Ruth whines, then sticks her tongue out.

Emma glances around to see who else she recognizes. There are several regulars she recognizes by face, though she has no idea of their names. She waves at a few of the trainers and hot walkers she knows, and she spies Will arguing with someone over a racing form over by the picnic tables. Belle's not far behind him, letting the argument reach a peak before tucking her book under one arm before she laying a hand on Will's shoulder to end the argument.

It took several months for Belle's divorce to be finalized. Gold had been stubborn, but Regina's friend Mal was a particularly ruthless divorce attorney and Gold's assets being transferred to Belle had lost him a lot of power and influence. Emma knows that even though Regina hadn't handled Belle's case, she still felt a savage sort of victory against the man.

Emma knows because she feels the same way.

But Belle hadn't been idle during those months. She'd made herself quite at home at the Horn, striking a deal with Killian to open an equine rehabilitation business on the property. "I like to keep busy," she'd said one evening over dinner. "Mary Margaret's got the baby now and put up several of our rescues for sale, so I have less to do there. I know she wouldn't mind if I took on the extra responsibility here -"

"And just who would be caring for them?" Killian had retorted, arms folded across his chest and trying to look intimidating, but Emma already knew he was going to agree.

Belle, meanwhile, had just given him a tolerant look and explained the deal she'd already worked out with Will and a few of the other men. "It's not even going to be a lot," she'd finished. "I'm not looking to run a huge operation, just something small. If it gets bigger than what I'm currently envisioning, then I'll look for different property and hire my own help."

Emma had just sat quietly, twirling her spaghetti on her fork and glancing between them as they bickered over small details - Killian putting up a front for the sake of it, something that Emma knew Belle was well-aware of from the small smile she kept trying to hide.

But not three months after founding the business, the divorce had been finalized and Belle was moving in with Will - just in time for Killian to ask Emma to move in with him.

The business has been thriving as of late, and Belle's only just started considering that move to new property. But Emma knows she's got other moving on her mind first - just the other day, Belle told them about the cute colonial-style house in town that she and Will were putting a bid on.

Emma's gaze shifts, watching now as Belle gently steers Will away toward a quieter picnic table - or at least an empty one where he's not going to start arguments. "Still hasn't asked," she comments, half to herself.

"Who hasn't asked what?" David asks, twisting to look where she's looking.

She nods towards Belle and Will. "Killian mentioned that Will's going to propose soon. But Belle's not wearing a ring, so I guess he hasn't asked yet. Or maybe he has and she's not wearing it, I dunno. I feel like she'd be the type to call with the news."

David makes a noise of understanding. "And Killian's okay with that?"

Emma looks up at her brother, raising an eyebrow. "Why wouldn't he be?"

He shrugs, looking back towards the track, but he doesn't answer. Finally she has to clear her throat expectantly before he stumbles through an answer - or several. "Well, I know he - Or, that is, he was - I guess it's kind of like losing his best employee to the competition? And it's kind of soon, I would think, like eighteen months after the divorce?"

Emma shrugs, nor particularly interested in how Gold sees things anymore - if he would even find out. She doesn't ask about Gold's case much, but she does know that the sheer number of charges against him have made the legal system sluggish. She suspects the lack of money greasing the palms of the new judges has something to do with it, but she doesn't particularly care. After everything he's done, he could rot in that cell forever.

"I guess," she says instead. "But they're already living together, so I would think it's just a matter of time."

"You'd think so," David says, but kind of under his breath, like maybe she wasn't supposed to hear.

Emma shifts Ruth to her other arm, looking around again. Over towards the commission offices, she spots Kristoff lingering on the rail. He's obviously trying to be incognito with his backwards hat and sunglasses, but he's kind of hard to miss and the Bruins hat with his number on it is a bit of a giveaway. Emma glances around to see if Anna's nearby too; as if on cue she comes bursting out of the offices with a clipboard and looking ready to bite someone's head off for some offense. Emma hides a smile, watching her friend go ream one of the jockeys out; most of the crew down here are plenty scared of Anna regularly, but the pregnancy has added a little to their well-placed fears. She's heard more than one person say they'll be glad when Anna goes on maternity leave in July; Emma, however, isn't looking forward to it, because that's the official start of the countdown to the Adgarssen sisters moving down south.

Emma chats idly with her family, picking up gossip and watching as the final preparations are made. She keeps an eye on the clock and can't turn off her director's brain as she mentally goes through the pre-race setup and checks she knows the girls are doing upstairs. She glances up towards the press box and catches Jefferson's camera making pans, then looks out towards the towers doing the same.

Her brain settles down a little after that. They've got it under control.

Finally, the call to post sounds and the horses are led out on parade. Emma smiles a little wryly as Henry gets paired up with the number 4 horse - hers. Idly, she wonders what he had to do to wrangle that one, but she appreciates it, whatever it was. Henry nods in her direction as they pass, then he nudges both horses into a trot.

She still can't believe that Cyg is hers - well, hers and Killian's. When David first suggested it, Emma thought he was just going crazy from lack of sleep. Even with three adults taking turns with newborn Ruth, they all suffered a bit in that area for the first few months. But no, David had been entirely serious, sitting her and Killian down in the barn office and the incomplete registration papers for Princess' foal. "If it wasn't for the two of you, she wouldn't even be here," David had said. "And you love that damn horse, Emma, the only reason Dad never gave her to you outright is because you were too young and inexperienced. So I'm making up for it now."

Emma had immediately started protesting. She didn't know the first thing about owning a racehorse - cleaning up after them, sure, but _owning_? "David -"

Killian's hand had covered hers then. It seemed he was much less intimidated by this prospect, even for someone who'd spent the last half-decade making a name for himself as someone who didn't own anything or stay anywhere. "Swan, take a moment to think this through," he'd said. "It's one little foal. We'd share ownership, and I can train her up. There's not much more to it than what you already do, you just have to foot more of the bill now."

David was just sitting back in his chair, his hands linked together over his stomach and watching them with a self-satisfied grin on his face. "Say 'thank you', Emma," he'd said.

She'd looked between her brother and her boyfriend, both incredibly touched that David was doing this for her - with the foal's bloodlines, she wasn't an inexpensive gift in the least - and incredibly exasperated that David and Killian had come to like each other enough to gang up on her. "Fine," she'd said. "But when she starts snatching all the purses out from under your nose, you'll regret it."

And now comes the day when Cyg has to live up to Emma's taunt.

Killian finds her at last, a little after she's given Ruth back to Mary Margaret. He slips his arm around Emma's waist and gently pries her white-knuckled grip off of the railing, holding her hand as they watch the warmups. "How is she?" Emma asks, leaning into him.

"Better than either of us, lass," Killian tells her. "She's fired up and ready to go, she can smell it."

Emma looks up at him. He'd slept fine the night before - she knows, because she wouldn't have been awake half the night alone otherwise - so this admission comes as something of a surprise. Maybe it's just because this isn't his _first _baby race; though he's never owned before now, he's put plenty of horses on the track that he's trained since birth. Emma is oh-for-two in that regard. "You're nervous?" she asks.

There's something in his gaze that she can't name as he runs his thumb over her knuckles. "I've been bloody terrified of today for weeks," he admits.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Emma asks. She's honestly surprised he hasn't mentioned it before now. Lord knows she hasn't been quiet about her nerves.

He opens his mouth to respond, but Mary Margaret exclaims, "They're loading!" before he can.

It's been a long time since Emma's stood on the rail, but the feeling hasn't changed. A restless kind of quiet settles across the apron, rippling through the crowd of patrons and owners and trainers alike, as they watch the fillies load into the chutes one at a time. Conversations fade and it feels like a crime to make any noise louder than a cough. Emma shades her eyes with her free hand to get a better view when Cyg steps up to the gate, watching for any signs of restlessness or discomfort even from this far away. But Cyg takes the gate like an old pro, settling in to wait while the rest of the field is loaded in.

The feeling hasn't changed - the feeling that just before the bell goes off and the gates fly open, when it's like the whole world is holding its breath. The air still vibrates with anticipation. The world still holds its breath between when the last gate closes behind the last load. Every eye is on the green and white gate on the other end of the field as everyone imagines the fillies with tense muscles and jockeys anticipating the gates flying open, both man and beast hungry for the taste of victory.

The world will still exhale as one when the front gates spring open at the sound of the bell.

There's a lot that can go wrong in the next few moments - a filly's nerves getting the better of her, a gate injury, a scratch, a reload. A lot can go wrong and drastically change the odds. A dream can die in an instant, the taste of victory can turn to ash, the burning need to run, to ride, to _fly,_ can fade to embers.

Emma finds herself holding her breath exactly like that, her hopes and fears riding on one little untested filly, ready to exhale with the rest of the world.

But then the gates open and the world exhales and ten fillies spring out of the gate and onto the track, and Emma's gripping Killian's hand like it's a lifeline. Her throat's locked up tight as she follows the movement of her own filly as Cyg and her rider weave through the pack. "She likes to chase," Killian murmurs, his own voice just as tight as her grip. "If he's smart, and I know he is, he'll hold her back enough to let her chase."

"She's catching up," David says, sounding just as tense.

It's only eight furlongs, a maiden race, not even a full minute long for fillies as fast as these, but those last three furlongs are the longest of Emma's life. As Cyg weaves around the last two horses in front of her, Emma raises up on her toes, leaning forward as if the closer she gets to the track the more she'll be able to help Cyg move faster. Her breathing sounds too-loud in her own ears and her pulse hammers in her throat; the rest of the track is drowned out as she focuses on her filly - her beautiful girl, miles of glorious muscle bunching and releasing under her chestnut coat as she fills the need to run that's been bred into her bones.

Emma would later swear that she _feels_ the jockey's signal more than she sees it, the way he gives Cyg her head and she's _flying_, her hooves hardly skimming the hard-packed dirt and then she's cleared the leader - she's up by a nose - a neck - a length -

Emma finds herself being lifted off the ground as Cyg crosses the line first. She realizes she's screaming nonsense as the world around her comes back into sharp focus, the roar of the crowd as they celebrate their wins or mourn their losses. Killian's whooping and hollering as he spins them around - he's the one who picked her up, spinning them in circles and shouting in celebration because _they won_. _Cyg_ won.

Their little filly won her first race.

Her family is cheering and the boys are jumping up and down; Ruth's hands are clamped over her ears but little Hunter sleeps on, oblivious to the celebrations going on around her. They're celebrating like they've won the Triple Crown, but even this little victory - an untested filly breaking her maiden against some seriously steep competition - is enough to warrant the shouting and the jumping up and down. But all of that dies away again as Emma's eyes meet Killian's. This is him - it's all his hard work that's gone into training Cyg - and she grins, cupping his face as he gently sets her down. There's a fierce determination in his eyes and she thinks he's going to kiss her, one of those sweeping, cheesy ones he does sometimes when he thinks he hasn't proved that he loves her more than anything else in the world. "Killian, you -"

"Marry me," he says in a rush. Emma's mouth drops open as the rest of her words die on her lips, her eyes widening. "I was going to ask proper, tonight with dinner and roses and a grand speech, but I can't wait another second. I love you, Emma Swan. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?"

_I've been bloody terrified of today for weeks._

Maybe Killian _had_ been a bit nervous about Cyg's race. But dinner, roses, speeches? That doesn't come without planning. He's been planning this for weeks; whether Cyg won or lost, Killian had been planning on asking her to marry him _tonight_.

He knew this day was important to her, the day their filly had her first race. And he'd wanted to ensure that no matter what, Emma walked away from this day with a happy memory.

_I'm sure we'll have plenty to celebrate tonight_, he'd said this morning.

Her perfect, ridiculous Killian.

Cyg's stats are being announced, her line of breeding and her times, and Emma's speechless for another moment as Leroy's voice comes over the loudspeakers again: "Swan's Princess, owned by Emma Swan and Killian Jones, trained by Killian Jones."

She comes back into herself then, and she finds herself smirking as she grips his biceps. "We're going to have to change that," she says, watching his eyes carefully.

Killian's brow furrows, obviously bewildered by the sudden change of topic. "What?"

Emma's hands slide up his arms until she's got them wrapped around his neck. "We'll have to change Cyg's papers," she says lightly. "Owned by Emma and Killian Jones."

His face breaks out into the widest grin she's ever seen, his eyes sparkling with joy and framed by the crow's feet she loves so much. "Is that a yes?" he asks.

Emma nods several times. "Yes," she whispers, her voice breaking as her grin widens to match his.

She laughs as he picks her up again, making her dizzy from spinning around so much, and then making her even dizzier by kissing her breathless in front of everyone. "I love you," she breathes when they come up for air, resting her forehead against his.

"And I you," he murmurs, setting her on the ground again. He digs in his pocket, pulling out a velvet box. The ring is simple, princess cut and set in white gold with several small diamonds decorating the slim band. He slips it onto her finger and then kisses the back of her hand. "Now, Mrs. Jones, I believe we've a winner's circle to stand in."

"Not five minutes and already we're getting engagement photos," Emma teases.

Killian just grins at her, taking her hand and lacing her fingers with his. He leads her into the winner's circle, where they're surrounded by friends and family. As she and Killian pose with Cyg, beaming from pride and love, Emma decides that _this,_ truly, is what home feels like.

_\- Fin -_

* * *

**Thank you so much everyone who stuck with this story over the last 18 months. It's very difficult to believe this is finally over.**

**Special thanks to my beta, idoltina, for being here every step of the way and leading me through this obnoxious obstacle course I set up for myself, and my friend Philyra for talking me off of several ledges and doing spot checks on some scenes and pinging ideas around with me. And thank you to everyone who has favorited, followed, and reviewed.**

**If you liked it, please let me know in a comment. The Downs still has more stories to tell, but this one has finally crossed the finish line. Thanks for riding with me.**


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